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<|text|> gasping for water, earth cupping the chapped broken hands of a hard laborer. The sky is so blue it looks like an oily smear of thick paint. The air reeks of salt. He could also smell ammonia – bird shit. Colonies of pink flamingos in the Laguna Colorada south of the salar. Dean rubs his back and leans his head on him when Cas is done, helping him clean himself up before the go to bed. “I smell pie,” he said to himself, walking into the kitchen, making a bee line for said pastry. He stared down on it and his eyebrows shot up. Cas sniffs and wipes the moisture out of his eyes, letting Dean hoist him up out of the rocker as quietly as possible. “Can you go to the bus stop at three?” Cas says, turning a page on his paperback, and Dean grunts his yes. He likes being the first one Danny sees when he gets off the bus after school, his back pack big enough to swallow him whole and his pants usually grass stained from recess. “It’s ok monkey, no more medicine.” Danny tells her, his nasally voice trying to be light. He tickles her leg and Faith manages a wet giggle. Castiel said awkwardly, doing his best to summarize the omnipotent rules of the endless cosmic chess game into a measurable word. Humans were - as usual - close, but not quite. “Deal with it.” Cas growls, looking harrowed. “They’ve been at it all day and I’m trying to get this done.” This whole time he’s been trying to define the point of this ‘exercise’, but even though he was tolerant of taking his position on stage he cannot seem to break the fantasy. He has been operating on the trickster’s terms, playing his part, but he hasn’t been let go. “Ok.” He breathes, before stopping, almost reconsidering, but not really. It’s more of a qualifier what he says next. “But she needs a bath – they both do. And we’ll put some of that rub on their chests, and they have got to get out of these clothes…I should have had them change earlier but I was tired and I wasn’t thinking…” It’s the best silent movie Cas has ever seen, and as he shakes his arm in the sweater, the only thing that could really pull him away is the reality that he gets to walk downstairs and be with them. The mid October sunshine is almost too good to be true, and the leaves are on fire with colors. . It plays through his head over and over, this endless loop of pleasure and the scratch of Dean’s stubble on his own, his toes curling up and relaxing. “Hmmm?” Castiel hummed, coming to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his trousers. He’d been dusting the mantle on a whim when Dean had called. Dean held up the measuring cup. “Dean.” His name breathed through parted lips, the former angels’ hair stuck to his head, slick, and black under the street lights flooding the parking lot. “Go see Daddy!” He said, grinning. “Dean! Dean show

<|output|> <|example|> gasping for water, earth cupping the chapped broken hands of a hard laborer. The sky is so blue it looks like an oily smear of thick paint. The air reeks of salt. He could also smell ammonia – bird shit. Colonies of pink flamingos in the Laguna Colorada south of the salar. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” He breathes, before stopping, almost reconsidering, but not really <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Ok <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> The air reeks of salt <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Dean held up the measuring cup <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> her where you are - ” Dean’s face popped out of the blanket and he held out his arms to her, Danny poking his head out too. “You want an omelet?” Dean says looking at the carton of eggs they bought the day before. “It’s gonna spoil otherwise…” The wind moans through the trees outside and whistles through the eves at the front of the house, but no snow falls. The bare branches cast shadows on the window panes where the sun is starting to go down. Cas digs in their pantry for storm candles and a box of matches and doesn’t reply, so Dean pulls it out along with the last of their bacon and the last half of their onion, a red pepper and somehow manages to throw it together on the counter. Cas reappears looking triumphant, a bag of tea lights in one hand and the other held behind his back. The boy giggled and Cas numbly felt his hand travel up to his chest to scratch at the material just above his heart. It was a queer feeling – like something was wiggling right there, something warm and squirming – and one he’d never felt so strongly. "Mm. Yes.” She puts her cup down with a little rattling sound, “But a little suffering is good for a growing boy. It helps him to learn.” She flashes her yellowing teeth at Leticia and Leticia smiles hesitantly back, the brown face friendly. “Hey.” He says darkly, already zeroing in on the cut and the awkward way Dean is putting his weight on his good leg. He turns around, and gives Faith a stare and she inches back in the house, slinking away like a cat, Polly following her, her dog tags tinkling. Cas is afraid, for a second, that maybe, when he steps through the other side the spell will finally break, that they won’t be there when he walks through the curtain of water. “But a man can’t be in love with a star, either.” Leticia comments, and the bruja shrugs her old, bony, shoulders. “Cas?! Baby!” Dean cries, racing to Castiel’s side, still holding the dead mouse by the wood of the trap. Cas leans out of the sink, looks at the dead mouse and retches again, batting Dean away. Dean stands there, dazed, in his underwear, and then goes to drop the mouse in the trashcan before hurrying back to Cas, helping him to the bathroom. Dean isn’t exactly the friendliest person in the world, but during Halloween it’s like he’s donated all his sense of humor to science. She takes her big brothers hand and he lets her lead him to the stairs where they climb down carefully, still gripping each other’s fingers. Dean follows behind them, not bothered it takes them twice as long this way. Dean reminds himself because Daniel isn’t there to do it. Their son takes it all very seriously, so Dean and Cas have tried their best to respect it by remembering the event’s full title. He remembered the first time he saw a raft - sticks and wood and leaves thrashed

<|output|> <|example|> her where you are - ” Dean’s face popped out of the blanket and he held out his arms to her, Danny poking his head out too. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> "Mm <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> She takes her big brothers hand and he lets her lead him to the stairs where they climb down carefully, still gripping each other’s fingers <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “It’s gonna spoil otherwise…” The wind moans through the trees outside and whistles through the eves at the front of the house, but no snow falls <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He remembered the first time he saw a raft - sticks and wood and leaves thrashed <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Cas is afraid, for a second, that maybe, when he steps through the other side the spell will finally break, that they won’t be there when he walks through the curtain of water <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Yes <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> together. Voyagers setting off on oceans full of salt and full of waves that came one after the other. Rafts that broke apart, obliterated, in the fist of the water, swirled into oblivion. “You are very easily entertained.” Sam mumbles, tickled. He raises his other hand and Danny’s eyes track it as it comes into view. “Here’s another. Pretty cool huh? I mean, for hands. Which you already have. Mine are just huge.” The song comes to its ending and the two keep up their dance for a few bars into the next before stopping and laughing at each other’s dizzy faces and red cheeks. The garage is oppressively warm from Dean’s space heater and the winter wind beats against the garage door, but neither are bothered. Faith starts to keen a little bit, anxious with the excitement and just as Dean reaches up to adjust her in his arms Daniel rockets off. Dean is supposed to be doing dishes, but instead he is sitting outside his son’s bedroom, listening to the creak of a rocking chair going back and forth. “A man is not a man, what a funny thing to say! If it looks like a duck, right? Probably a duck – but, this is a show of the strange, and perhaps our friend here isn’t what he seems at all!” “Alright little man.” Dean encouraged, supporting his weight as they made their way up to his bathroom, all of his sixteen year old body leaned on Dean’s shoulder and upper arm, shuffling with him down the hall to his bedroom. Once there Dean carefully deposited him inside the adjoining bathroom and started to run the water. “…I hear it. It’s the way I would sing about you.” Cas finishes. Dean goes quiet, letting the record play, swaying with Cas in their dark living room. “Look Danny - see the mittens?” He whispers and Danny chirps again before Cas turns the page once more, his voice deep and slow and even. The star heard his confession and offered himself; the man’s mouth caught the star as a jar catches water. They eat their donuts on a spread of paper towels, even though crumbs still get on the carpet and stick to Faith’s mouth, but it’s worth it to do Daniel’s favorite part with him and see him laugh so hard he nearly chokes. He thought of his Father, who made the blue of this sky - a reflection of water and atmosphere. The same startling blue of these eyes now rolling around in this head, of newborn babies. “If you carry such a heavy heart you will turn into a catfish!” The bruja says suddenly, and she turns her tanned face to Leticia, grinning. Leticia’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open. The bruja leans on her broom, laughing a little to herself, her wispy gray hair falling out of it’s holdings, looking like spiderwebs are caught in her hair when the dusty wind blows across the yard. He darted for the stairs. Dean met him half way up, and Cas let out a sound of surprise as Dean grabbed him around

<|output|> <|example|> together. Voyagers setting off on oceans full of salt and full of waves that came one after the other. Rafts that broke apart, obliterated, in the fist of the water, swirled into oblivion. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The star heard his confession and offered himself; the man’s mouth caught the star as a jar catches water <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Leticia’s eyes go wide and her mouth falls open <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “Look Danny - see the mittens?” He whispers and Danny chirps again before Cas turns the page once more, his voice deep and slow and even <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Voyagers setting off on oceans full of salt and full of waves that came one after the other <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Mine are just huge <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> “…I hear it <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> It’s the way I would sing about you <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> ” Sam mumbles, tickled <|indexes|> 7 7 |

<|text|> the middle. Cas held the pie plate up and the fork, trying to wiggle out of Dean’s grip, but Dean had him. Cas sank to sitting on the stairs, successfully escaping Dean’s arms, and turned - his legs on either side of Dean as he stood above him, staring down at Cas who laughed and took another forkful of pie and shoved it into his mouth. Dean crouched over him, and grabbed his hair and Cas groaned enthusiastically around the mouthful of cherries and cold crust. sort of guy. They forget by dinner, but that night, as Cas huffs lightly beside him, fat on ham, Dean can’t shake the irksome feeling. “Next time?” Dean says roughly, and then he reaches forward with both hands to grab Cas’s face and kiss him hard and quick. “You’re something.” He says between another two presses of their mouths, both of them still breathing a little heavy. They get back to the house and Dean parks the Impala and watches Cas take Faith up to bed where Dean hopes she stays properly knocked out, Danny having woken up when they pulled into the driveway, staggering along, Cas’s arm around his shoulders. Dean sets the alarm while he shrugs out of his jacket and makes sure everything is right before he follows, passing the pot of soup forgotten in the sink. He picks up Polly, even though she grumbles a bit before licking at his chin and wagging her little stumpy tail, and carries her to the second floor. Back upstairs they find Danny halfway on the mattress, having collapsed into the pillow with one foot still touching the floor. Polly wiggles and Dean let’s her gently down on Danny’s bed, where she usually sleeps. Faith finally falls asleep when they hit halfway through town, and Dean pulls off to u-turn and head back to the house, one arm stretched out over the back of the seat, sliding till he meets Cas’s neck. Cas doesn’t even jump at the way Dean’s hand rubs at the knob of his spine, completely lax. He smiles in contentment, Faith and Danny warm sighing lumps of quilt on his lap, a wonderful weight. He was jerked back to reality by Faith grabbing his nose, looking up at him with her big brown eyes wide. Cas frowns and let’s the weight of the pan sink back into his hand as he drops his arms, sighing. Dean moves to his side and they both look at the pathetic little mess. "You get it?” Dean said, smirking, and it was Cas’s turn to roll eyes eyes and elbow him in the ribs, Dean’s teasing laughter echoing off of the trees and the ornamental rocks of the park. “Good job!” He tells her as she rinses with the big cup, squealing when Dean uses it to get the shampoo out of her hair, plastering it to her forehead and her face. Keeping an eye on the time, he pulls the plug in the tub and lifts her out and towels her off, relishing the muffled laughs she produces when he covers her face

<|output|> <|example|> the middle. Cas held the pie plate up and the fork, trying to wiggle out of Dean’s grip, but Dean had him. Cas sank to sitting on the stairs, successfully escaping Dean’s arms, and turned - his legs on either side of Dean as he stood above him, staring down at Cas who laughed and took another forkful of pie and shoved it into his mouth. Dean crouched over him, and grabbed his hair and Cas groaned enthusiastically around the mouthful of cherries and cold crust. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Dean sets the alarm while he shrugs out of his jacket and makes sure everything is right before he follows, passing the pot of soup forgotten in the sink <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Dean moves to his side and they both look at the pathetic little mess <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “Good job!” He tells her as she rinses with the big cup, squealing when Dean uses it to get the shampoo out of her hair, plastering it to her forehead and her face <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> the middle <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Cas held the pie plate up and the fork, trying to wiggle out of Dean’s grip, but Dean had him <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> with the big fluffy towel and asks casually where his baby girl went. it, ass.” Cas smiled back, holding the camera up. Dean looked straight ahead, his smugness relaxed into a content smile. He reached out and playfully shoved at Cas’s head, ruffling his hair, and then pulled him in again, arm around his shoulder. Cas smiled to himself and aimed the camera at the side of Dean’s face. Dean glanced at him and Cas took his free hand and shoved his face forward. “No, like this!” He says, because she’s puffing her cheeks instead of sucking them in. He reaches out to push her cheeks together and air rushes out and she laughs, a few little tears still sticking to her cheeks. It’s pretty hysterical, actually. Their hand motions are uncoordinated and choppy and only half seem to know the actual lyrics, but they all shout the song as loud as they can and after a minute even all the nervous ones are smiling, but Daniel’s is the brightest for Dean and Cas. It’s adorable and Dean is beside himself as Daniel performs the motions, glancing at their section every once and a while to smile extra big, his face flushed with excitement. Faith tries to do the motions too, and fails, settling for just clapping when she can, and staring in awe at her big brother when she can’t. “Danny come here so I can give this to you…” Cas says distantly, watching Faith with one eye and measuring out more of the over-the-counter cough syrup with the other, having wasted no time in fishing it out of the plastic bags that Dean has brought in. Its seven o’clock at night and what Dean pushed off as just allergies the day before is a full-fledged “Hey, you ok?” Dean says gently, not wanting to raise his voice too much over the lilting music. Cas spins on him, looking surprised. “I used to be able to speak french.” He clenches the fingers on his arms. “I can hardly remember any of it anymore…I could speak every language known on this earth.” He sighs. “But now, I couldn’t tell you what the words she says are. Not even a little.” , the good and greatest work, the singular speechless species of joy) asleep in the bed, brought them flowers, told them of trips to the “There was a man with a heavy heart, and it was so heavy it burst like a damn and became a river, and the man couldn’t stay a man any longer. His body was sinking. He was too heavy to hold, so he became a catfish instead, and he hid in the mud, because loneliness is a dark thing, sometimes." “Nothing’s wrong. Just Sam’s continuing mission to turn you into an absolute fruit cake.” He gestures at the record and Castiel looks down at it and then back up at Dean. “Good plan.” Dean says as Cas finally kisses him properly before pulling back and sitting down on the table. “That was quick, no traffic?” Castiel says it with only half-interest as Dean opens the door, eyes fixed

<|output|> <|example|> with the big fluffy towel and asks casually where his baby girl went. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Faith tries to do the motions too, and fails, settling for just clapping when she can, and staring in awe at her big brother when she can’t <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> on the thermometer in his pale fingers, displeasure written all over his face. "Monkey, come on, it’s ok.” He tells her over and over and she lifts her face from  his t-shirt only to pepper him with kisses. - the greatest mirror on the earth, the largest salt flat in the world that was once a pluvial lake full of megafauna. Cas opens his eyes in one fierce moment, frighteningly bright and luminescent, and maybe it’s a trick of the light from their still silent TV, but they glow. “GOT HIM!” He yells, whooping, and Castiel, perturbed by the situation and more than a little whoozy now that he thinks about it stares at the limp creature hanging from the trap. “Here, I’ll give you some juice after you take it, ok? To get the taste out – Dean, can you get that juice she likes?” Castiel sounds as tired as Faith is, and it makes sense because Dean’s been gone all day doing the whole mechanic thing, and Cas’s been taking care of a sick child. Cas kisses him three times till the worry on his brow smooths out, and Dean considers which is really the privileged one: the wave or the shoreline. They work themselves up to a steady wanting, Dean whimpering when Cas guides him in. Castiel looked down at the shallow water and saw his baggy coat and wilting collar, tie askew. His sensible black dress shoes were wet now. Curiosity getting the better of him, Dean wanders into the living room where the Cas is standing in the center of the room. His chin rests in the palm of his hand, the other crossed over his stomach. From the side Dean can see his eyes are slightly squinted in the direction of the stereo cabinet, blinking every so often at the record spinning on the table. “She’s excited!” Dean says, glancing at her in the rear view mirror, the wipers on against the snow beginning to pillow down. “Ain’t ya’ monkey?” “That hurts, I bet.” Dean says softly, and Faith hiccups, starting to calm down. Cas meets them inside and pushes her hair back over her now sticky cheeks. Cas drew back after a moment and trailed his lips up to kiss the tip of Dean’s nose and then nip it playfully before sitting up and pulling off his shirt. Dean smiled in approval and Cas rolled his eyes before shaking his hair out of the collar and tossing it behind him where it fell to the floor, forgotten. He doesn’t put his coffee down even as he stands out on the freezing patio of the back yard and yells. “Play it again, Cas.” Dean says softly, green eyes glowing in the dark, “Play it again. I’m trying to listen to it…like, you know…” “I’m holding you to that. The cleaning up bit.” Cas says, brushing past Dean who is grabbing extra paper towels, as he goes into the living room, sitting down on the floor to help Daniel sort his candy. The next morning, hung over, Cas almost trips on Dean’s pants which are right in front of the trash, and

<|output|> <|example|> on the thermometer in his pale fingers, displeasure written all over his face. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “Here, I’ll give you some juice after you take it, ok? To get the taste out – Dean, can you get that juice she likes?” Castiel sounds as tired as Faith is, and it makes sense because Dean’s been gone all day doing the whole mechanic thing, and Cas’s been taking care of a sick child <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “GOT HIM!” He yells, whooping, and Castiel, perturbed by the situation and more than a little whoozy now that he thinks about it stares at the limp creature hanging from the trap <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> The next morning, hung over, Cas almost trips on Dean’s pants which are right in front of the trash, and <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> "Monkey, come on, it’s ok <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> "Monkey, come on, it’s ok <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> - the greatest mirror on the earth, the largest salt flat in the world that was once a pluvial lake full of megafauna <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> Curiosity getting the better of him, Dean wanders into the living room where the Cas is standing in the center of the room <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> as he sees the dead mouse sitting inside he can only imagine, picking up the pants and depositing them in the laundry room nearby. It would have continued to, this game, but Castiel was beginning to be unconscious of his actions, and so, it had begun to bleed outside of their house. Under his feet, under the white snowy-crush crust of salt, the water was still and old and dreaming teary dreams of splashing He pulls up to their house around four in the afternoon, and he hates doing that because he always has to call Cas ahead of time, make sure the kids are outside. He doesn’t want them to see him like this with a cut over his eyebrow that he didn’t have the time or energy to clean and his leg dragging like a lame dog’s. “It’s not about trying to understand it, it’s listening to what’s already there.” Cas assures. He dissolves back into his humming, and that’s when it clicks. Dean feels the vibrations from Cas’s voice sift into his own. Cas had come downstairs after a nap to find Dean panting and grunting under the counter, his shirt riding up, exposing the smooth rounded edges of his hip bones and the stark trail of hair that started right below his belly button. Castiel had stood, a little mesmerized, as Dean gyrated, trying to get positioned so that the wrench could work the most effectively. When he noticed Cas he had smiled at him and held out his hand for a tool, which Castiel had promptly delivered, and then he was back at the sink and Castiel was allowed to continue staring. an angel, eh Castiel?” the magician continues, and Castiel stares at the stone in his palm and then up at the magician. The bedroom door is open, and he can hear Castiel rustling around inside and the TV is on some news station, but Dean isn’t paying attention. He’s turning to see Castiel in one of the white button downs he puts under his sweaters, open and hanging off of him , and, god help him, just those little jockey briefs he wears. Dean watches as Castiel definitely notices he’s in the room and stops slouching through the drawer he’s bent over and straightens, raising up on the balls of his feet, back arching backwards in a cat-like stretch. He eyes Dean sideways, the picture of innocence. “Yeah, we’re just about to hit the road – Faith can you click that sweetheart? Yeah we’re about to leave.” “CHECK!” Daniel roars and Dean fights the smile that’s threatening to break out over his face, because this is serious business. He’s talking to a “Come on monkey!” Dean says as he scoops her into his arms half way up the staircase, which makes her shriek and thrash a bit before giving in. He helps her out of her day clothes and into the tub she goes, disgruntled that he has to untangle her long brown hair, but happy to play with Daniel’s pirate bath toy without him complaining about it. Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching

<|output|> <|example|> as he sees the dead mouse sitting inside he can only imagine, picking up the pants and depositing them in the laundry room nearby. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> The bedroom door is open, and he can hear Castiel rustling around inside and the TV is on some news station, but Dean isn’t paying attention <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> When he noticed Cas he had smiled at him and held out his hand for a tool, which Castiel had promptly delivered, and then he was back at the sink and Castiel was allowed to continue staring <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Dean watches as Castiel definitely notices he’s in the room and stops slouching through the drawer he’s bent over and straightens, raising up on the balls of his feet, back arching backwards in a cat-like stretch <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> The bedroom door is open, and he can hear Castiel rustling around inside and the TV is on some news station, but Dean isn’t paying attention <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> He’s turning to see Castiel in one of the white button downs he puts under his sweaters, open and hanging off of him , and, god help him, just those little jockey briefs he wears <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> him as if he could tell there was something else he wanted to say. Jack wondered if he dared. He didn’t want to be demanding. He didn’t want to make even So, um. Firstly, I'm SO sorry it's been such a long time since I updated! I took a hiatus to get my uni work done, and after that, honestly I really struggled with writing this. I've written the whole thing now, though, so the next few updates will be really quick! It's going to be 8 chapters in total (sorry, I got carried away because I enjoyed writing about Jack too much, so the whole thing's ended up at nearly 20k words!) “Did it.” Dean said dryly. “Yeah, well, call me old-fashioned, but personally, I don’t trust any kind of drink that has vegetables in it. That just shouldn’t be allowed. Right, Cas?” Jack nodded, slowly. He wasn’t quite convinced. And thinking about how Dean had stormed out because of him made him feel like there was a hard knot in his stomach. He couldn’t help worrying about what would happen when Dean stormed back For a few seconds Jack just stood there, staring, frozen. Then his brain kicked into gear. This was bad. This was very bad. This was… Then he turned back to Jack, and before he had time to react, he’d swept him all the way down the hall and towards his room. “I’m sure that doesn’t happen,” said Cas. “That would be rather a tragic story – and movies like Paddington Bear are supposed to be happy, aren’t they?” “Jack,” said Dean, after a while. He was speaking very carefully, as if he was considering exactly what to say. “I know that we’ve had our differences in the past. And I know that I’ve been a pretty poor excuse for a dad sometimes. But I could know whatever stunt he’s going to pull next, what damage he’s going to do, and that’s the problem. Because we can’t trust him. Sometimes I really do start to feel like he’s taking after his father.” “I’m sure that’s not true -” Sam started, but before he could get any further, the kitchen door suddenly opened and Cas strode out, looking positively murderous. He blanched when he saw that Jack was still there; stopped in his tracks, dismayed. So Dean shrugged, reached out to ruffle Cas’s hair in a way that made him glare slightly, and left. Jack went on reading his comic. He could tell Cas was still watching him, in that way that parents did, in Jack’s limited experience, watch over their kids, but Jack didn’t bring up the oranges again and so neither did Cas. And an hour later there they were, dumped casually on the table in front of him by Dean. “I was just trying to make marmalade,” he said again, his voice slightly shaky. “I just wanted it to be a surprise -” And he put down his untouched smoothie with a thunk and marched towards the door, almost crashing straight into Eileen, who’d appeared out of nowhere. “That’s good,” said Dean. “I’m glad you’re doing it for

<|output|> <|example|> him as if he could tell there was something else he wanted to say. Jack wondered if he dared. He didn’t want to be demanding. He didn’t want to make even <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But I could know whatever stunt he’s going to pull next, what damage he’s going to do, and that’s the problem <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> yourself. Because you know… you know you don’t have to “What?” There was a pause; then Dean said, dismissively, “Don’t be silly. Jack knows… Cas, you’re blowing this out of proportion. Jack can take it. I’ve said plenty of worse things to him before.” “Oh – it’s not about the mess,” said Dean. “It’s just – I’ve got a surprise for you, Jack.” Dean looked suddenly very excited. Cas, on the other hand, began to look slightly wary. Jack felt a lump come into his throat, clogging it right up. His skin suddenly felt cold. Because he knew who Dean meant – it was obvious from his cold, angry tone. He didn’t mean Cas, or Sam, or himself. He meant Lucifer. “But… but I thought…” Jack frowned. It didn’t make sense. Hadn’t the whole point of Dean trying to be nice to Jack been so Cas wouldn’t been mad at him anymore? So why had he gone to all that bother for Jack and not even But when they got to the kitchen and Cas pushed the door open, Dean was already there. He had bags under his eyes and was busy with a dust-pan and a knife, trying to scrape metal and marmalade off the counter. He looked up when he saw them, gave a slightly awkward nod. Cas gave a nod back – just one, very curt, obligatory nod. The atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife. “Do you think there’s more hiding places like this? Or secret passages, even?” Jack liked the idea of that. “No, I’m not!” Jack said, quickly un-squinting himself. “Why are you still here, anyway? I thought you were making dinner.” Jack was still waiting patiently for Dean to answer the question, head tilted slightly in a very Cas-like way. Dean couldn’t help laughing, despite everything. Then there was the part where Paddington was taken home by the Browns. At first, nobody seemed to want him, apart from the mother. Judy thought he was an embarrassment; and Mr Brown wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. Everything Paddington Bear did seemed to end in disaster – slapstick, spectacular disaster. Cas didn’t reply; just raised his eyebrows and reached for a glass of his own. But when Dean looked up to check for his reaction, he suddenly realised that Jack was glaring at him. It was a fierce glare, the exact opposite of Jack’s usual sunny smiles, very angry and very deliberate. He focused his energy on the oranges; narrowed his eyes to unleash his powers. Maybe if he put in enough heat the oranges would go properly soft right away, and he wouldn’t even have to wait for them to boil! So he concentrated: and, in one short burst, put all his energy into heating the water, letting it engulf those oranges. The water bubbled; the oranges swelled, big and bulbous, growing darker and darker orange; Jack felt the temperature rise (well above boiling point, but that was what his powers were for), he focused more and more heat, and… I made sure to actually get this out in time for once, in honour of

<|output|> <|example|> yourself. Because you know… you know you don’t have to <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Dean couldn’t help laughing, despite everything <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Dean couldn’t help laughing, despite everything <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> father's day! Also, I literally looked up marmalade recipes to write this chapter! “See,” he said, showing Jack. “It’s under this floorboard – except look, it’s not a real floorboard, it’s only pretend. You can lift it right off. I think the Men of Letters used to use it to stash spell ingredients. Don’t go telling Sam or Cas about this spot, by the way. This is our secret, right? I’m trusting you.” Dean was busy cooking. Jack hoped whatever he was making would be better than the horrible food the scary cook in the film served up after Paddington Bear got sent to jail. “Maybe…” said Jack. “How do you get the bees?” He had a vision of sitting in the backseat of the Impala, holding a box of angry buzzing bees on his lap and trying frantically to hold on to the lid so none of them would get out. “Dean… bought me a jar,” said Jack. “So I could see what it was like without burning the kitchen down. Didn’t he tell you?” “Maybe I expected you to act like you possessed a shred of love and appreciation for your son,” said Cas. “Maybe that was foolish of me.” It was always more difficult to tell, with Cas. Dean would either watch enthusiastically, laughing or gasping out loud at particular scenes, or start to fidget and talk over the film about something completely unrelated; Sam, when he got bored, would surreptitiously take out his phone and start texting Eileen. But Cas always watched intently, no matter how bad or boring or disappointing the movie was, if Jack was the one who’d picked it. That made things difficult. thinking about. Jack hadn’t meant to. He’d just been stating the obvious – the first thought that came into his head. But it was nice to be taken seriously, especially by “Yep,” he said, looking from Jack to Cas, both of who were staring at him. “I can definitely see why the two of ” Cas said, and his voice was colder, more furious than Jack had ever heard it before – at least directed at Dean. “That’s Fun fact: the parenting tip about having kids put their hand in water to feel it heat up might sound random, but it's actually a thing, believe it or not! On my gap year, I worked at a nursery for visually impaired kids, and it was a way for them to learn how heat works through texture without having to rely on eye-sight. I suddenly remembered it while I was writing this and I thought I'd include it because, well. Reasons. is that supposed to mean?” Dean demanded. “Of course I care about him! He knows what – and you know it to. Maybe you got out on the wrong side of bed this morning – or, I don’t know, whatever the angel equivalent is, whatever it is that puts you in a generally pissy mood - and that’s why you’ve decided to be all huffy with me; fine. Be like that, if you want. But don’t you Jack just shrugged, going back to the comic

<|output|> <|example|> father's day! Also, I literally looked up marmalade recipes to write this chapter! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> is that supposed to mean?” Dean demanded <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> he was reading. Cas was watching him carefully, but didn’t say anything. “Cas -” Jack started; but Cas just swept him further along the hall, face set. “Go to your room,” he said; he put his hand on Jack’s arm, his voice softening just a tad; then he turned round and strode back to the kitchen, purposeful as ever. Dean’s face was still cold, neutral, and Jack felt his heart sink. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, it wasn’t how he’d imagined… “It wasn’t,” said Jack. “I just thought they sounded fun. I can say them really quickly now, listen! How-much-wood-would-a-” He stopped, guiltily, when it suddenly occurred to him that Dean and Cas “That is one clear advantage that angels have over bears,” said Cas. “Not the most obvious one you’d think of, perhaps, but it’s certainly useful.” It was starting to feel more like Jack’s home, too. He’d become so used to feeling like a burden – like an unwelcome guest who had to earn his right to be there, his right to even exist. It had been such a familiar feeling, a heavy knot that had lain deep inside him for almost the entirity of his four years of existence. But Dean must have picked up the despondant tone of his voice, because he quickly shook his head. “No, no – it’s fine. It’s just – that’s kind of a loaded question, Jack. It’s… it’s complicated.” “What?” Dean paused, confused, as if racking his brain. “You mean what I said about… him taking after his father? All right, I’ll admit, maybe I went a bit far. But Jack can’t go on like that. I mean, who knows what stunt he’ll pull next? He’s -” There was a sudden CRASH and the whole pan exploded: oranges, water and all. The water splattered all over the room, sizzling like mad. The oranges exploded into pithy bits, landing all over the kitchen. And the metal of the pan, it went disintegrated – some of it melting into a goop all over the oven, some bits of it flying through the kitchen to land on different surfaces, cupboards, tables and all, sticking there like chewing gum. “It wasn’t because of you,” said Dean. “It was… it was me. I’m just not quite the person he –” He stopped himself. “But that’s got nothing to do with you.” “Quality time” had become one of Cas’s new catchphrases over the past few days. He’d learnt the term from one of Dean’s parenting articles. Dean was starting to regret having shown them to Cas – he was taking a rather Dean was giving Jack a strange look. It was almost, he thought, like the way Cas sometimes watched Jack, when he was just going round doing one of his things – reading, or baking, or talking to Miracle the dog, or the bees. It was almost affectionate. sound a bit more cheerful about it,” he said. “That was another hour-long drive there and back! – Not that I minded, really,” he added quickly. “It was nice, taking Baby out for a spin again. I don’t get

<|output|> <|example|> he was reading. Cas was watching him carefully, but didn’t say anything. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” “Quality time” had become one of Cas’s new catchphrases over the past few days <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ” It was starting to feel more like Jack’s home, too <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> But Dean must have picked up the despondant tone of his voice, because he quickly shook his head <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> It was almost affectionate <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> out as much now we’ve retired from hunting. But, you know. A lot of petrol. All for one jar of marmalade for you.” “I can clean up now!” said Jack. “Like I said I would. Now that it’s morning.” He had a sudden vision of getting it all done before the others even woke up – of Dean coming into the kitchen and seeing it all tidy and sparkling, as if Jack had never done any damage at all. The thought of it made him brighten. It was Dean. His eyebrows shot sky-high when he saw it just floating there, but, surpisingly, he didn’t comment. “Hey, Jack,” he said. “So, Cas kind of… got this idea in his head that we should set up one of those bee-keeping hive things outside the bunker. Won’t shut up about it, actually. I blame Rowena – she “He won’t,” said Cas, sounding absolutely convinced. “Dean’s a good person. He’ll get that it was an accident, that you didn’t mean any harm. And he Cas had started cluttering up the place with his own little trinkets. He’d go out to second-hand shops and bring home some sort of strange object – “They were going to throw this out!” he’d say, holding up a rusty victorian shoe-cleaner or hauling in a grandfather clock with all the insides missing. Once it was just a creepy stuffed dead owl with an angry face. He insisted on putting it right opposite his and Dean’s bed, where it just happened to be the first thing they saw every morning. “I told you,” said Dean. “It’s nothing. It cost me less than 2 dollars. I’ll pick you up another one on the way to get Cas’s dumb bee stuff.” “Yeah, well, Cas is good at that,” said Dean. “He absolutely dotes on you. Always has done. Since before you were even born, I’m pretty sure.” For a moment, Dean just looked at him. Jack stood still, dreading what he was going to say. Then, he felt Cas squeezing his arm again, comfortingly and protectively. He looked up, and saw that Cas was staring right back at Dean. It looked suspiciously like a Paddington Bear Hard Stare. But that clot was still in his throat; that heavy feeling deep in his stomach. Because he knew, really, that Dean hadn’t forgiven him; that he hadn’t changed his mind, from what he’d said the day before. He might be playing nice again, for Cas, but he still didn’t… have told you off, just a bit – because I’m not having you risk accidentally injuring yourself, not on my watch. But I shouldn’t have said the things I did. I shouldn’t have hurt you like that.” He paused, then added, “Cas was absolutely right, there. He usually is.” “Damn right I’m angry!” Dean interrupted. He turned to Jack. “Look at the state of the kitchen. Can we not even leave you alone for two seconds without you causing some kind of chaos?” But before he did, he turned to Jack; looked right at him, his face serious. “I really am sorry,” he said. Then he turned round

<|output|> <|example|> out as much now we’ve retired from hunting. But, you know. A lot of petrol. All for one jar of marmalade for you.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> out as much now we’ve retired from hunting <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> It cost me less than 2 dollars <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Then he turned round <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> and walked out of the kitchen. Jack started to feel slightly panicked. But it was fine. What he didn’t understand, he’d make up as he went along. He started to boil some water – he knew how to do that, you had to put the flame on really, really high so the water could get hot. Even with the oven on, it seemed to be taking ages though – and the recipe said you had to boil the oranges for a whole hour! He hadn’t thought it would take that long, and there were loads more steps afterwards. It would get really boring, all that waiting. They divided up the tasks. Cas washed all the jars. He was very diligent about it. Dean insisted on doing all the chopping up (“I literally used to be God!” Jack insisted again, just in case it was because Dean didn’t trust him around knives (which would be stupid, considering all the monsters he’d fought before); “You’re four,” Dean retorted). But it was Jack who boiled the oranges in the pan – properly, this time. “Jack, I…” Dean trailed off, as if at a loss for words. “Jack, I’m really sorry if I’ve ever made you think that. Of It was past eight by now, and soon Sam came into the kitchen, looking bleary-eyed and slightly moody. It didn’t seem like he’d had much sleep either. Jack had just taken it down and was absentmindedly tossing it between his hands like a juggling ball (with a bit of help from his angel powers) when the door suddenly opened. Startled, Jack looked up – the jar floated, suspended, in mid-air. Jack paused in the hall, dithering. He knew he should do what Cas said. He knew it wouldn’t do him good to listen. But at the same time, he still felt so irate, his heart beating too quickly. He knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. He wanted to know what Dean would say, if he was really that mad at Jack, if he… In the end, all three of them made the marmalade together. They did it while Sam and Eileen were out, so that it would be a surprise for them. Dean let Jack use his extra-special secret cupboard to hide all the supplies. Then they carried it through to the main room where Cas and Claire were, and Jack made everyone try some. And, even though it really “Anyway, I guess it paid off in the end,” said Dean. “Not that reciting exorcisms to demon bees was probably “That was a good movie,” said Cas as the credits rolled, and Jack couldn’t help beaming, because Cas genuinely seemed to mean it. warm – he could probably use his powers to stop the water from burning him, if he really wanted. But before he had chance to even think about doing so, Dean was back, tapping at his arm. “Do you think the Browns ever really properly accepted Paddington?” Jack asked. “I know that at the end of the movie they let him stay with them, and everyone’s happy, but… do you think it was real?” “We both

<|output|> <|example|> and walked out of the kitchen. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Cas washed all the jars <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> But it was fine <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> What he didn’t understand, he’d make up as he went along <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> Jack had just taken it down and was absentmindedly tossing it between his hands like a juggling ball (with a bit of help from his angel powers) when the door suddenly opened <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> But it was fine <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Cas washed all the jars <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> It didn’t seem like he’d had much sleep either <|indexes|> 6 6 |

<|text|> did it together,” said Jack. He didn’t feel like he deserved all the credit. “And Dean… Dean did a lot too.” Jack felt his heart sink. “I know,” he said. “It would be a disaster. I just thought it looked like fun when Paddington Bear did it. But it would be a bad idea. I can’t cook. And I’m not a bear.” “I don’t think I’m giving either of them a run for their money,” said Jack. “Look.” The rolling of the swiss roll hadn’t gone particularly well; it was all cracked, and looked more like a messy stack of crumbled chocolate sponge, jam spilling out of the edges. It was about all the many different things that had built up in Jack’s four short years on the planet. And the thick shadow that had slowly been formed, hanging between them. Jack gave another slightly uncertain nod. With Cas, that was easy to believe, easy to accept – and it was nice to have that knowledge, to realise that, actually, he’d always had it. He’d taken it for granted, really – and maybe that was a good thing, that he’d “What?” Dean sounded shocked. “Cas, I – he wrecked the whole kitchen! I mean, look at the state of it – he needs to learn that he can’t just do things like that.” Jack looked up at him very cautiously. “It wouldn’t be a good idea,” he said. “It ended so badly last time. I’m not like Paddington Bear. I don’t know how to cook – not at all.” – no-one else’s. And I thought you knew that; I thought you agreed. I thought… I thought better of you, Dean. But perhaps that was a mistake.” “Do you think we can get it all back to how it was?” Jack asked hopefully, as they walked over to the kitchen. He seemed to be directing the question mostly at Cas; but Cas didn’t answer. Instead, he looked to Jack. He was taking his lead, Jack suddenly realised. Seeing how Jack felt before he decided whether to make up with Dean. There were times, now, more and more often. When he caught a glimpse of Cas’s fond eyes watching him. When Dean announced that he was taking him out on a surprise outing, just the two of them. When Jack got stung trying too hard to make friends with the bees, and Cas spent hours helping him to dig out the stings, so gently it almost didn’t hurt anymore. When a woman at the grocery store swore at Jack one day because he was spending too long dithering, and Dean yelled at her so furiously that Sam hid in another aisle and pretended he didn’t know him. Or in the evenings when one of them, one of his dads, would open Jack’s bedroom door just a crack, just to peer in and make sure he was okay. There were times like that, more and more often, when Jack would feel that knot inside him loosen slightly. of practise,” said Dean. “I mean, I get wanting to perfect a skill – but this was getting a

<|output|> <|example|> did it together,” said Jack. He didn’t feel like he deserved all the credit. “And Dean… Dean did a lot too.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” “I don’t think I’m giving either of them a run for their money,” said Jack <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ” The rolling of the swiss roll hadn’t gone particularly well; it was all cracked, and looked more like a messy stack of crumbled chocolate sponge, jam spilling out of the edges <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> bit obsessive.” “It won’t matter,” said Dean. “Or, you know – we’ll deal with it. This time, whatever goes wrong, it’ll be down to I'm really sorry I took so long to update this! I know I said I was going to post the next chapter last Wednesday - what happened was, I reread the draft and I suddenly realised there was a lot I didn't like about how I'd framed stuff, and then it took me forever to try to edit it so I was at least reasonably happy. Anyway, here we finally are! This chapter was definitely my favourite one to write and least favourite one to edit! “And,” Dean added. “If it does go wrong – even if the whole kitchen burns down, and, I don’t know, we somehow accidentally open some secret ancient locked-away portal, and unleash some evil force, and unlock a brand new apocalypse… even if it goes as bad as it could possibly go, do you know what?” “You’ve got better things to do,” said Jack. “It takes ages – the recipe says. That’s why I tried to use my angel powers – I wanted it to be quicker. And you need all sorts of things – oranges and sugar, and jam jars… and you, you threw them all away.” Suddenly, there was the sound of footsteps from the other end of the hall. Jack looked around, trying to find somewhere to hide – but there was nowhere he could really go apart from the kitchen, and that didn’t seem like a particularly great idea right now. So he backed away, trying to make it look right. I can’t do what I’m told. I can’t stop causing damage, and making everything horrible, and that’s…” He paused, let out a large, juddering breath. “That’s why you hate me,” he finished, quietly. Anyway, it was time to add the oranges. He dumped them in; flinched as some of the water splashed out of the pan, sizzling slightly – it really was hot. But it was fine. Once again, I'm REALLY sorry this took so long for me to post! I didn't have that much left to write, but I'm really bad at at actually finishing fics. So I hope you forgive me if the ending's a bit clunky and enjoy this anyway! “Well, I can help you with that,” said Cas. “We’ll wait till tomorrow though,” he added conspiratorially. “Leave Dean to calm down a bit. Think about his “We still are friends,” said Cas. “And I think we always will be. We’ve been through a lot together. So we’re allowed to call one another out sometimes when we thing the other one is being unreasonable.” idea to make a potion – helps himself to some of the weird Men of Letters crap we’ve got lying around in the bunker? We don’t know what he’s capable of.”

<|output|> <|example|> bit obsessive.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Anyway, here we finally are! This chapter was definitely my favourite one to write and least favourite one to edit! “And,” Dean added <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> So we’re allowed to call one another out sometimes when we thing the other one is being unreasonable <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> “That’s why you hate me,” he finished, quietly <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> <|example|> Dean blows out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and follows Cas’ eyes to the sea. There’s something fluttering in Dean’s throat, pressing at the backs of his teeth, waiting to slip out. Dean holds the tiny words on his tongue, tasting them on every inhale. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “I know sugar.” Dean says gruffly back, looking up at Cas. “You gonna handle her?” He asks and Cas adjusts her in his arms while she hugs his neck, making another miserable sound. Polly watches them from under the kitchen table, her ears pricking in their direction. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> a sigh why Dean just doesn’t engage Cas to change the channel, but then things get complicated. Dean gets defensive. Says he wouldn’t do that, says that it doesn’t bother him that much, that he finds other things to do. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and keep them from leaving earth as the whippoorwill sounds in the wood. Cas’s voice, wooly with sleepiness follows after him, chasing the trembling brooks of sadness that blossom in his stomach like the columbine trellis they nailed to the cottage’s side. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> are fish in the river that evade the nets of men, for they are not fish at all. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a date.” he responds and she nods before bounding to the door, forgetting to close it behind her. Polly snuffles beside Dean on the bed and he shuts his eyes and feels for her warm head beside him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and others try to replicate the beauty he sees whenever she’s near? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and Dean takes it from him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> shaking out Daniel’s favorite pajama pants and handing them to him with clean boxers. Daniel remained silent for a moment while he rubbed his hair with another towel. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Dean blows out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and follows Cas’ eyes to the sea. There’s something fluttering in Dean’s throat, pressing at the backs of his teeth, waiting to slip out. Dean holds the tiny words on his tongue, tasting them on every inhale. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “I know sugar.” Dean says gruffly back, looking up at Cas. “You gonna handle her?” He asks and Cas adjusts her in his arms while she hugs his neck, making another miserable sound. Polly watches them from under the kitchen table, her ears pricking in their direction. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “I know sugar <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> are fish in the river that evade the nets of men, for they are not fish at all. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a date.” he responds and she nods before bounding to the door, forgetting to close it behind her. Polly snuffles beside Dean on the bed and he shuts his eyes and feels for her warm head beside him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and others try to replicate the beauty he sees whenever she’s near? <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and Dean takes it from him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> shaking out Daniel’s favorite pajama pants and handing them to him with clean boxers. Daniel remained silent for a moment while he rubbed his hair with another towel. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> with a last exhale of excited ions; it was getting bored staring at the sky. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> getting comfortable. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a winter coat. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> right there honey, we’ll have the aid take care of it!” She called as Danny put it down with and smiled at her, his lips quivering. He staggered forward and Dean rushed to him, putting an arm around his shoulders, trying not to notice how that shoulder was meeting his own and that their heads were getting close to being level. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> are fish in the river that evade the nets of men, for they are not fish at all. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Daniel remained silent for a moment while he rubbed his hair with another towel <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> and Dean takes it from him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> shaking out Daniel’s favorite pajama pants and handing them to him with clean boxers. Daniel remained silent for a moment while he rubbed his hair with another towel. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> with a last exhale of excited ions; it was getting bored staring at the sky. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> getting comfortable. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a winter coat. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> and Dean takes it from him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> and Dean takes it from him <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> getting comfortable. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> a winter coat. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> right there honey, we’ll have the aid take care of it!” She called as Danny put it down with and smiled at her, his lips quivering. He staggered forward and Dean rushed to him, putting an arm around his shoulders, trying not to notice how that shoulder was meeting his own and that their heads were getting close to being level. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> when he did it, just to be cheeky, and he had pulled the big brown towel out of the basket and flung it so that it covered Cas’s face, startling a surprised ‘ah’ out of the former in the angel in the process. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> around, as though there’s some kind of joke going on. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as Dean sits up and drags the comforter over him, the two melting together. Cas’s head lands right over Dean’s heartbeat, and he’s still in seconds, and Dean doesn’t mind that it leaves him setting the sleep timer on the TV and stroking Cas’s back under his sweatshirt, the skin warm and smooth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> getting comfortable. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> when he did it, just to be cheeky, and he had pulled the big brown towel out of the basket and flung it so that it covered Cas’s face, startling a surprised ‘ah’ out of the former in the angel in the process <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> when he did it, just to be cheeky, and he had pulled the big brown towel out of the basket and flung it so that it covered Cas’s face, startling a surprised ‘ah’ out of the former in the angel in the process. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> around, as though there’s some kind of joke going on. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as Dean sits up and drags the comforter over him, the two melting together. Cas’s head lands right over Dean’s heartbeat, and he’s still in seconds, and Dean doesn’t mind that it leaves him setting the sleep timer on the TV and stroking Cas’s back under his sweatshirt, the skin warm and smooth. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the sound of him regulating his breathing after Cas probably scared him half to death. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> not hard enough to scold Dean for stepping on him. Their eyes don’t stray from each other, the rest of the world pretty much forgotten for a few precious minutes. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feel like shit.” He croaked and Dean reached out to palm his forehead, moving his hair to one side before letting his fingers cup his pale cheek. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> sublimely tranquil shell. He heaves himself up to walk to the bathroom. He hates sleeping like that, and he wipes himself up, the tap running a wonderful white noise on Dean’s ears, before padding back to bed to nestle naked against Dean’s side. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> eyes gleaming at the seam of the thicket keeping vigil over the kits in her den, fat with milk. Two little kits are curled on their grandfather’s bed as he tells them a story he has been wanting to tell for a long time. He translates it, but in his head it is the story of three boys who saved an old man from himself. The little girl’s infant fist curls against her mouth and she nibbles her finger, nodding forward, trying to keep the sleep away . The boy sprawls at his feet, arms slung out over the old man’s legs, head resting on his thigh. The dog on the rug below kicks absently in her dreams. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> when he did it, just to be cheeky, and he had pulled the big brown towel out of the basket and flung it so that it covered Cas’s face, startling a surprised ‘ah’ out of the former in the angel in the process. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He translates it, but in his head it is the story of three boys who saved an old man from himself <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> the sound of him regulating his breathing after Cas probably scared him half to death. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> not hard enough to scold Dean for stepping on him. Their eyes don’t stray from each other, the rest of the world pretty much forgotten for a few precious minutes. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feel like shit.” He croaked and Dean reached out to palm his forehead, moving his hair to one side before letting his fingers cup his pale cheek. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> sublimely tranquil shell. He heaves himself up to walk to the bathroom. He hates sleeping like that, and he wipes himself up, the tap running a wonderful white noise on Dean’s ears, before padding back to bed to nestle naked against Dean’s side. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> eyes gleaming at the seam of the thicket keeping vigil over the kits in her den, fat with milk. Two little kits are curled on their grandfather’s bed as he tells them a story he has been wanting to tell for a long time. He translates it, but in his head it is the story of three boys who saved an old man from himself. The little girl’s infant fist curls against her mouth and she nibbles her finger, nodding forward, trying to keep the sleep away . The boy sprawls at his feet, arms slung out over the old man’s legs, head resting on his thigh. The dog on the rug below kicks absently in her dreams. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> gasping for water, earth cupping the chapped broken hands of a hard laborer. The sky is so blue it looks like an oily smear of thick paint. The air reeks of salt. He could also smell ammonia – bird shit. Colonies of pink flamingos in the Laguna Colorada south of the salar. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> her where you are - ” Dean’s face popped out of the blanket and he held out his arms to her, Danny poking his head out too. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> together. Voyagers setting off on oceans full of salt and full of waves that came one after the other. Rafts that broke apart, obliterated, in the fist of the water, swirled into oblivion. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> the sound of him regulating his breathing after Cas probably scared him half to death. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> feel like shit <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> sublimely tranquil shell. He heaves himself up to walk to the bathroom. He hates sleeping like that, and he wipes himself up, the tap running a wonderful white noise on Dean’s ears, before padding back to bed to nestle naked against Dean’s side. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> eyes gleaming at the seam of the thicket keeping vigil over the kits in her den, fat with milk. Two little kits are curled on their grandfather’s bed as he tells them a story he has been wanting to tell for a long time. He translates it, but in his head it is the story of three boys who saved an old man from himself. The little girl’s infant fist curls against her mouth and she nibbles her finger, nodding forward, trying to keep the sleep away . The boy sprawls at his feet, arms slung out over the old man’s legs, head resting on his thigh. The dog on the rug below kicks absently in her dreams. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> gasping for water, earth cupping the chapped broken hands of a hard laborer. The sky is so blue it looks like an oily smear of thick paint. The air reeks of salt. He could also smell ammonia – bird shit. Colonies of pink flamingos in the Laguna Colorada south of the salar. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> her where you are - ” Dean’s face popped out of the blanket and he held out his arms to her, Danny poking his head out too. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> together. Voyagers setting off on oceans full of salt and full of waves that came one after the other. Rafts that broke apart, obliterated, in the fist of the water, swirled into oblivion. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the middle. Cas held the pie plate up and the fork, trying to wiggle out of Dean’s grip, but Dean had him. Cas sank to sitting on the stairs, successfully escaping Dean’s arms, and turned - his legs on either side of Dean as he stood above him, staring down at Cas who laughed and took another forkful of pie and shoved it into his mouth. Dean crouched over him, and grabbed his hair and Cas groaned enthusiastically around the mouthful of cherries and cold crust. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> sublimely tranquil shell. He heaves himself up to walk to the bathroom. He hates sleeping like that, and he wipes himself up, the tap running a wonderful white noise on Dean’s ears, before padding back to bed to nestle naked against Dean’s side. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He heaves himself up to walk to the bathroom <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> her where you are - ” Dean’s face popped out of the blanket and he held out his arms to her, Danny poking his head out too. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> together. Voyagers setting off on oceans full of salt and full of waves that came one after the other. Rafts that broke apart, obliterated, in the fist of the water, swirled into oblivion. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the middle. Cas held the pie plate up and the fork, trying to wiggle out of Dean’s grip, but Dean had him. Cas sank to sitting on the stairs, successfully escaping Dean’s arms, and turned - his legs on either side of Dean as he stood above him, staring down at Cas who laughed and took another forkful of pie and shoved it into his mouth. Dean crouched over him, and grabbed his hair and Cas groaned enthusiastically around the mouthful of cherries and cold crust. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> with the big fluffy towel and asks casually where his baby girl went. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> on the thermometer in his pale fingers, displeasure written all over his face. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as he sees the dead mouse sitting inside he can only imagine, picking up the pants and depositing them in the laundry room nearby. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 1 | <|example|> him as if he could tell there was something else he wanted to say. Jack wondered if he dared. He didn’t want to be demanding. He didn’t want to make even <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> yourself. Because you know… you know you don’t have to <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> her where you are - ” Dean’s face popped out of the blanket and he held out his arms to her, Danny poking his head out too. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Cas sank to sitting on the stairs, successfully escaping Dean’s arms, and turned - his legs on either side of Dean as he stood above him, staring down at Cas who laughed and took another forkful of pie and shoved it into his mouth <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> with the big fluffy towel and asks casually where his baby girl went. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> on the thermometer in his pale fingers, displeasure written all over his face. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as he sees the dead mouse sitting inside he can only imagine, picking up the pants and depositing them in the laundry room nearby. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 1 | <|example|> him as if he could tell there was something else he wanted to say. Jack wondered if he dared. He didn’t want to be demanding. He didn’t want to make even <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> yourself. Because you know… you know you don’t have to <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> with the big fluffy towel and asks casually where his baby girl went. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Jack nodded again, but Dean was still watching <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> He didn’t want to make even <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> yourself <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?” She sighed and nodded. “The summer’s almost over. I won't be back here until Christmas. There doesn't seem to be much point pretending our relationship is going to last. It's silly to try; people just end up making promises they never really intend to keep.” His work frequently brought him to St. Bart's Hospital, sometimes to question the living, more often to inspect the dead. He had found a niche as a consulting detective, a profession he'd invented himself. Sherlock opened the door before I could frantically ring the bell, somehow predicting the precise time of my arrival. “Now then,” John says, producing his phone from his pocket with a flourish. “It wouldn’t be a proper celebration without some games.” As soon as John is out of earshot, Sherlock lets out a huff of air, releasing the tension trapped in his shoulders. Things seemed to be going well so far. But he can’t let himself leap too far ahead. He can’t assume anything yet. Sherlock peers closer at a man lounging against the ambulance. He’s tall and lanky with dark hair and sharp features. John took the slip of paper. “Of course. I’ll write when I'm settled in.” He paused. “What we can say will be limited…” That night, the CNN market report flickered mutely in the background as Sherlock adjusted his knees on the plump sofa cushions, straddling John's lap. He positioned John’s thick cock just where he wanted it, then sank slowly down, down, gradually taking the girth, nuzzling John's mouth. Their eyes were closed, oblivious to anything but each other, turning, perfectly in sync. Dad shifted, pulling back slightly to look up at Sherlock. Their eyes met and they gazed at each other, almost coming to a halt. Dad reached up to trace Sherlock's cheek with his fingertips, and they smiled softly, drawing together for a tender kiss, then resuming their slow swaying. Sherlock was about to turn away when something about the American made him linger a few moments more. It was the way he stood admiring the villa, a smile on his face. He removed his sunglasses, squinting against the light, and closed his eyes for a moment as if drinking in the sun. He looked… grateful. “Now,” Sherlock continued, “imagine a box in front of you. You're going to step into each corner of the box. Step forward with your left foot,” Sherlock pulled John gently, “then your right foot goes sideways to the right, yes, then bring the left foot together with the right -- ow!” Sherlock was propped up on his elbows watching John, his chest rising and falling, his expression a mixture of suspense and heated anticipation. “Your – your hair,” Sherlock stammers from across the breakfast table. “It’s all…” Sherlock can’t find the right word so he makes a waving motion with his hand. “I’ve missed you,” John murmurs huskily, dipping his mouth to Sherlock’s bare shoulder. His robe is slipping off, hanging askew. Sherlock

<|output|> <|example|> He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Step forward with your left foot,” Sherlock pulled John gently, “then your right foot goes sideways to the right, yes, then bring the left foot together with the right -- ow!” Sherlock was propped up on his elbows watching John, his chest rising and falling, his expression a mixture of suspense and heated anticipation <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> He removed his sunglasses, squinting against the light, and closed his eyes for a moment as if drinking in the sun <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Sherlock <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> He positioned John’s thick cock just where he wanted it, then sank slowly down, down, gradually taking the girth, nuzzling John's mouth <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> nodded wordlessly. He was more than alright; he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the person he wanted, finally answering a question that had long haunted him. Resigned, he turned up his coat collar and began walking toward the nearest Underground entrance, dreading standing amongst the crush of damp humanity that would smell like wet wool and old boots. He knew he should grateful to his parents for salvaging his academic career. Only their influence had prevented him from being expelled. At the moment, however, he felt very little gratitude. Mrs. Hudson bustled off to the kitchen and John limped toward the fireplace, choosing to sit in the overstuffed chair covered with red fabric. He settled into the cushion with a grunt, glad to take the weight off his leg. He was surprised at how easily Mrs. Hudson was moving around the kitchen. Apparently she spent a good deal of time in the flat and knew just where the tea cups and kettle were. “I used to go exploring when I was a child,” Sherlock explained. “I found the ruins one day and ran all the way back to show my father. He came back with me and we spent all afternoon looking around.” “The suburbs,” I said, shorthand for Dad taking a job at the hospital, dropping me off at school when he could, teaching me how to ride a bike, cooking Christmas dinners with Aunt Harry. Yet he’d never completely given up parts of his old life. The movie is forgotten, the world narrowed to eager lips and hot breath and sensitive skin, the leather upholstery groaning as they shift, snogging heavily, a tangle of limbs pressed into the corner of the sofa. He turned and stalked to the door without waiting for Sherlock to reply. He focused on quickly descending the stairs, just wanting to get out onto the pavement again and walk away from this flat and all the memories roiling up in it. John lightly kissed Sherlock's lips, his fingertips tracing down the heat of Sherlock's torso. Without breaking their gaze, he lowered himself to his knees, breathing in the muskiness and wisp of smoke that clung to Sherlock's skin. He gently grasped Sherlock's prick and guided the head to his mouth. Happiness and horniness bubbled up in him as the kiss grew deeper and they staggered backwards, John pressing Sherlock against the full-length mirror. Sherlock groaned again as John sank his hips into him, rough denim against denim, an unmistakable hardness detectable beneath the thick cotton. John shivered, marveling at the way Sherlock’s enormous hands easily spanned his back. He worked his palms under Sherlock’s wool jumper and thin T-shirt, finding skin, curving around his waist, slender and solid and hot to the touch. “Very lucky,” Sherlock replied, placing his lips on John's cheek, moving slowly to kiss his temple, then his mouth. John sank his fingertips into the mound of an arse cheek, biting down gently on Sherlock's bottom lip, releasing it with tug. “I want to taste every inch of you,” he growled against John's neck. “From top --” a nip under his jaw, a

<|output|> <|example|> nodded wordlessly. He was more than alright; he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the person he wanted, finally answering a question that had long haunted him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Without breaking their gaze, he lowered himself to his knees, breathing in the muskiness and wisp of smoke that clung to Sherlock's skin <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “From top --” a nip under his jaw, a <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> John shivered, marveling at the way Sherlock’s enormous hands easily spanned his back <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> John lightly kissed Sherlock's lips, his fingertips tracing down the heat of Sherlock's torso <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Sherlock groaned again as John sank his hips into him, rough denim against denim, an unmistakable hardness detectable beneath the thick cotton <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Hudson bustled off to the kitchen and John limped toward the fireplace, choosing to sit in the overstuffed chair covered with red fabric <|indexes|> 5 5 |

<|text|> squeeze of arse -- “to bottom.” A wave of unexpected joy flowed over Sherlock. After all the years of invitations to visit, John had finally come. They had made no promises in London, parting on open-ended terms, no strings attached. When John was awarded the literary prize he had been nominated for, Sherlock had sent a warm note of congratulations, no pleas, no pressure. His gaze moves to the small line of shiny pink skin at the inner corner of Sherlock's eyebrow, the tell-tale marks of the stitches that Molly removed yesterday. John had caused the cut there, blackened Sherlock's eye. Guilt stabs through him again, remembering a blur of white-hot anger, fists flying, lashing out, mindless with rage and grief, an unrecognizable animal consuming his body. John. He puts his arms around John’s waist, tugging him closer, kissing him, water running over their torsos. What would it be like, he wonders, to be with John when he was completely invisible? It might be like being blindfolded, not knowing what was coming next. A photograph could never quite capture all they had shared during the summer, but they would have a record to remember it by in the years to come, treasured images kept secretly among the pages of a book or a locked drawer in a desk. He walks on, hunkered in his coat, feeling empty. He finally winds his way back to Baker Street, his face and ears stinging from the cold. He lets himself in and climbs the stairs, lost in his moody thoughts, too preoccupied to even switch on the lights. “I have a few errands to run. When you're finished, meet me at the pub -- the Feather and Thorn. It’s the one on the corner by the bookshop. I’ll buy you a pint.” A group of men entered the room, talking loudly, jostling and joking with each other. He tuned out the banter of the men, only lifting his head when he heard a familiar name. “Excellent work,” Sherlock praised her offhandedly. He removed the lid of the box and sorted through a plaid shirt, lightweight jumper, and trousers. Nothing was left in the pockets. He pulled out a long grey scarf, running the soft wool through his fingers. A smile slowly curved up one corner of his mouth. Sherlock stares at her over John's shoulder, transfixed, everything logical within him thrown into turmoil. She can't be real, and yet there she is, smirking like the cat who got the cream. “Someone’s turning over a new leaf,” Mrs. Holmes commented approvingly, spearing a boiled potato sprinkled with butter and parsley. Sherlock leans down and kisses John with more passion than a few buttons generally call for. John looks at him, surprised. “What was that for?” John waits, content to watch the shadows flicker over Sherlock’s face and neck, his burgundy dressing gown thrown over a dove grey shirt, the top two buttons undone. Much as he tried, he could not stop thinking about Sherlock. He had buried himself in chores, tried to focus on studying, and then, days ago, Sherlock had appeared in the back yard, shattering any notion

<|output|> <|example|> squeeze of arse -- “to bottom.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “What was that for?” John waits, content to watch the shadows flicker over Sherlock’s face and neck, his burgundy dressing gown thrown over a dove grey shirt, the top two buttons undone <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Sherlock leans down and kisses John with more passion than a few buttons generally call for <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> He tuned out the banter of the men, only lifting his head when he heard a familiar name <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> of self-control. I sit next to Sherlock in the back of the cab when we return to Baker Street after the press conference. It’s dark outside, Christmas lights sparkling in store windows and draped around trees, illuminating the cold night. A light dusting of snow covers fences and cars and bushes and bins, softening the hard edges of the city. John stopped close beside him. Sherlock's legs felt weak, his breath still ragged when John cupped the nape of his neck and pulled him to his mouth. Straddling their bikes, they kissed, finally alone and away from prying eyes, wrapped in a dizzy tang of beer and warm, salty skin. John shifted his weight to find a better position, momentarily distracted by the smear of ink on his palm. He quickly closed his fist, remembering what it was. But he was too slow -- Sherlock had seen it as well. Sherlock circled John’s wrist with his fingers, lifting it up to inspect the blurry numbers. Hope bubbled up in John’s chest as they shared a slow smile, a fragile tendril of flirtation blooming between them. John picked up his glass and chimed it in a gentle toast against Sherlock’s, their fingers nearly touching. He grits his teeth, forcing himself to contemplate the ridiculous. What if a ghost had slid the knife into the bookshelf so he’d find the photo album? What if a ghost had been in his room last night, communicating with him, touching him? And what if that ghost had been, in a past life, his lover? The entree -- local lamb, new potatoes -- led to John's Army days, Sherlock’s past studies in chemistry. “There’s no home to go back to. My mother passed away just over a year ago from a heart condition. Aunt Helen's gone, too. That just leaves my sister, and we don't get along.” John looked at his hands. “She wants to sell our parents’ house. I don't care. She can keep the money.” How unlikely was it for the two of them to be here together on this mild summer night, to ever have met? He didn't believe in fate or destiny, but the odds of them finding each other in this tiny corner of the world were very slim. He didn't want to think about what would happen when the summer ended, when he returned to university and John shipped off for boot camp… Sherlock moved his foot, sliding his toes over John’s, sending a secret message he hoped John would understand. Sherlock really wanted the conversation to end. He glanced at his watch. “Must dash. Good luck.” He swept through the door and down the hallway without waiting for a response. Besides, it was probably wise to have a little time to mull over what had transpired. They really ought to take the time to get to know each other better. Isn't that what people always said? The air now smelled of soot, the temperature noticeably warmer compared to the countryside. One of the women fanned herself, and one gentlemen loosened his tie. John turned back to the window, eager to leave the stuffy

<|output|> <|example|> of self-control. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> My mother passed away just over a year ago from a heart condition <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> One of the women fanned herself, and one gentlemen loosened his tie <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> He quickly closed his fist, remembering what it was <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “She wants to sell our parents’ house <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> But he was too slow -- Sherlock had seen it as well <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Hope bubbled up in John’s chest as they shared a slow smile, a fragile tendril of flirtation blooming between them <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> John turned back to the window, eager to leave the stuffy <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> train. Sherlock looked forward to their time together, finding a quiet companionship in the arrangement. And, if he was honest, he liked stealing glances at John, watching him swim or read, noticing how his shoulder blades curved when he turned onto his stomach to sun his back. “So -- “ John hesitated, not sure he should leap to wild conclusions. “That explains why there were no other footprints. It was an accident.” Their legs brushed, and John held his breath. Sherlock lowered his head a fraction, sharing a flicker of a glance. John waited, his pulse loud in his ears, his gaze drifting to Sherlock's lips, wanting them to come closer. He would wait, he would wait… and he was rewarded. John glanced at the screen and found he was looking at a candid snapshot of himself. Sherlock must have taken the photo of him wearing the ivory jumper on the sly this morning. Then his eyes turn to the case wall, to the faces of victims and criminals, maps pushed-pinned with locations of bodies, lab reports of bullet fragments and toxic substances. He’s asked Sherlock not to display the most gruesome photos on the wall, so those are sequestered in the files on the desk -- crime scenes, blood splatter patterns, disfigured corpses. Sherlock remained silent, his expression conflicted. Although John desperately wanted an answer, he knew he couldn't press the matter; he had just put the decision completely into Sherlock's hands. John decided to take the opportunity to step away. “Think I'll go find something stronger to drink,” he quipped, then nodded a goodbye before wending back to the door. John took a final few frames, then set the camera aside. He handed Sherlock a cup, slipped off his clothes, then joined him for breakfast in bed. They tore off chunks of dense, chewy bagels seasoned with salt, sipped the steaming dark roast. They teased, nudged shoulders, shared long glances. Sherlock thought for a moment. “We’ll give it to Constable Dimmock. No need to mention Molly or going to the funeral home. I'll figure out what to say. Just follow my lead.” I don’t know why Sherlock insists that I come along to these things. I suppose I’m useful as an assistant, holding on to coats and gift boxes and certificates. And as a translator, nudging him to be polite or replying to simple questions that he ignores. John quickly swallowed another mouthful of beer, trying to wash away the image of Sherlock and the thief’s naked bodies, hard and sinewy, Sherlock’s long fingers tracing down the inky legs of the spider, memorizing every line as evidence. His mind drifted back to Sherlock and the bittersweet afternoon they'd had -- the dance lesson, Mycroft’s interruption, the sharp exchange between the brothers. John had stayed clear of the Holmes’ residence the rest of the week, not wanting to cross paths with Mycroft again. John goes outside, leaving behind his shoes and rolling up the hem of his trousers several inches. The salt air is bracing and the sand is warm on his bare feet. He soon catches up to Sherlock, who smiles in welcome. John

<|output|> <|example|> train. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “That explains why there were no other footprints <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> fell into bed, the ghostly imprint of the ring still whispering around his finger, but his hand felt lighter, free at last. Sherlock dropped the scarf back into the box and replaced the lid. “Just a theory,” he answered vaguely. Had he opened them, he would have known about Mary's death and John's injury. But what would he have done with that knowledge? How would it have changed anything? They drift into silence again, and he fingers the softness of John's shirt. One of his knuckles unintentionally brushes John's nipple, and it hardens, visible through the white fabric. He pauses. “I was just going to open a bottle of wine,” Sherlock eventually said. “Would you care for a glass?” It is also, Sherlock has come to realize, a defense mechanism. Some part of John has been so hurt, so betrayed, that he is never going to allow anyone to completely consume him again. He needs to maintain his own independent life, control his own course. As much as it pains him, Sherlock understands this, too. After all, he caused much of that damage. John has given up prying for details whenever Sherlock limps home with a wound, instead ensuring that he has a well-stocked first-aid kit on hand. He played flawlessly, imbuing the piece with more emotion than he’d ever accessed before. It unnerved him, his hand shaking as he drew the bow down in its final stroke. He stood there, overwhelmed. Sherlock’s fingers threaded through John’s hair as his lips moved lower, anointing his belly, grazing his navel and the fine line of dark hair that ran beneath it. Sherlock watched, mesmerized as John gathered his cock in his hand, flicking his eyes up in a sultry gaze as he guided the head to his lips. Sherlock had shown me the fundamentals of picking locks and how to find the best dim sum in any large city, so I felt relatively prepared when I finally left home to face the world on my own. John is used to living in two worlds at the same time. He pictures them like two circles in a Venn diagram. One is the public sphere -- his life with Olivia and Harry, the hospital and patients, homework and telly, the laundry and the shopping. I still didn't understand their need for distance and secrecy, although I imagined Sherlock's rather public profile was one reason. Dad was an incredibly private person. It took him years to tell me about the bullet scar on his shoulder, the nightmares, the therapy. He rarely talked about the war. Sherlock feels the corners of John’s mouth curve into a grin and he pulls back, worried that he’s done something wrong. He scans John’s face for derision, but finds nothing but deep blue eyes and a crooked, sultry smile that makes his blood sing. He moved on, noting how quickly people walked, always in a hurry. Everyone seemed to be wearing black or grey; a rare bright colored coat stood out as a tourist. My friends had already started at university. Emma was interested in psychology and Matthew was studying computer science. We had broken

<|output|> <|example|> fell into bed, the ghostly imprint of the ring still whispering around his finger, but his hand felt lighter, free at last. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Had he opened them, he would have known about Mary's death and John's injury <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> He moved on, noting how quickly people walked, always in a hurry <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 <|example|> Sherlock dropped the scarf back into the box and replaced the lid <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> One is the public sphere -- his life with Olivia and Harry, the hospital and patients, homework and telly, the laundry and the shopping <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> One of his knuckles unintentionally brushes John's nipple, and it hardens, visible through the white fabric <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> But what would he have done with that knowledge? How would it have changed anything? They drift into silence again, and he fingers the softness of John's shirt <|indexes|> 5 <|example|> As much as it pains him, Sherlock understands this, too <|indexes|> 6 <|example|> It took him years to tell me about the bullet scar on his shoulder, the nightmares, the therapy <|indexes|> 7 |

<|text|> up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway. John turns Sherlock by the hips to face the tile wall, pushing him forward with a gentle pressure on the back of his neck. Sherlock bends slightly at the waist, his forearms braced against the wall, his arse jutting out behind him. A glide of palm down his back tells him he’s standing just where John wants him. Sherlock clutches at John’s back, moving his hips, drawing out the motion of their intimate counterpoint. John watches him, his eyes dark, absorbing Sherlock’s reactions, responding to his cues. “What?” Before John could say another word, Anthea slid off the stool and sauntered over to the stranger. He passed through Times Square, dazzled by the energetic crowd of people and languages and lights, giant electronic billboards shimmering and flashing. He felt a bit of culture shock -- the massive use of electricity and garish storefronts and obvious wealth such a contrast to the austerity of the country he'd just left. “I might have a few gardening things for you to do, too. Thomas is taking some time to visit his new granddaughter.” I pulled up to the garage and stepped out of the car. The first to greet me was Stamford, the Irish Setter. There was some special meaning about his name, but I never quite got the full story. I'd have to ask about that again. His own days were a circle of classes, the laboratory, and his rooms, with the occasional foray into town to obtain certain necessities. He was still a loner, sometimes going days without uttering a word to anyone. “Christ, did you spy on us?” John felt anger boiling up in his chest, stunned at Sherlock’s audacity. “How is this any of your business? Why are you even here?” Sherlock’s heart is pounding but he staggers ahead, led by his emotions. “I know what my answer is,” he whispers, knowing he’s stealing John’s turn. He doesn’t care, there’s a window open and he’s got to squeeze through it before it’s too late, before he slams it shut himself and seals up the whole room. He has to do it now or never. Sherlock quickly suppresses a smirk. “There were a few noises last night. Did you happen to hear anything?” Sherlock looked at the spines of books tucked into the shelves, not really seeing them. “It's so far away,” he said quietly. I hesitated a beat, trying to make the next words from my mouth sound casual. “Dad and Sherlock are best friends, so I guess that makes them soulmates.” She pulled away and unlocked her door, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Oh, it’s so cold!” she shivered, laughing, turning on the engine. I woke to Stamford whining and pawing at my side. I groaned and tried to ignore him, but he was insistent. He needed to go out. I groaned again and sat up groggily, then followed him down the stairs. I let him out the back door in the kitchen,

<|output|> <|example|> up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He felt a bit of culture shock -- the massive use of electricity and garish storefronts and obvious wealth such a contrast to the austerity of the country he'd just left <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “What?” Before John could say another word, Anthea slid off the stool and sauntered over to the stranger <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> He needed to go out <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> John watches him, his eyes dark, absorbing Sherlock’s reactions, responding to his cues <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> yawning while I waited. They lie close together, quiet, listening to the rain. Sherlock maps the scar on John’s shoulder with his fingers. His skin feels cool again, his body more transparent. He glances up at John, concerned. “Just preparation. Chances are I’ll be sent to India, maybe somewhere in Africa.” John picked up a pen and toyed with it, trying to push back a wave of doubt. “Sometimes I wonder…” he started, then stopped. A cloud of white smoke hung in the warm air as Sherlock carefully removed the cover of a hive. John watched as he gently lifted out a screen of some sort and examined it closely, then replaced it and lifted out the next. It was mesmerizing, his movements methodical yet graceful, his concentration unbroken by the occasional bee crawling over his hands or clinging to the netting so close to his face. Grinning, they pried off their shoes and socks, stripped off their jackets and shirts, and shimmied out of their trousers and cotton drawers, leaving everything in two heaps on the dock. “John,” he murmurs before he loses courage, his voice soft, his lips hesitating at the corner of John's mouth, “I love you, too.” They eat, watching the sunlight fade. Cicadas drone and fireflies appear above the dewy grass, lazily blinking out their luminescent signals of seduction. Sherlock blew across the top of his cup to cool the tea. “People do change. You should try it. Immediately.” “Ah, God,” he gasped, gazing up through the dense branches, wanting to prolong the exquisite pleasure throbbing in his body. He felt it boil over, unable to hold back, coming hard and hot in John's throat. “You’re not blogging about this,” Sherlock warns, rolling on top of John, pinning his hands above his head. “I don't like the unsolved ones.” Their lips brushed again, gentle and unhurried, John's fingers tangling into Sherlock's damp hair. Lying back on the blanket, an indulgence of hands and mouths unfolded, clothes slipping off again, lips on skin, a caging of cocks between slow grinding hips, their bodies supple and bending like young willows, lean and strong. He helps slide off Sherlock's black suit jacket, hangs it over another chair while Sherlock slips off his shoes. They lower onto the bed, nestle together, and both sigh heavily. John reappears, his expression blissful. He cages Sherlock between his elbows, his mouth descending, claiming, then giving himself utterly in a grateful kiss. He rolls onto his side, avoiding any pressure on Sherlock’s chest. His form is still hazy, as if he doesn’t have the energy to sharpen his edges. He'd just finished a double shift and was exhausted, heading straight to the shower after returning to Greg’s flat from the clinic. Greg was out, probably working late on a case. God, how he wishes he could take it all back, undo all the damage they've caused each other. He should not have blamed Sherlock and shut him out. He should not have hurt him so viciously. Sherlock should not have ruined himself for John to save. They smiled, imagining a different future for a moment, then Sherlock shifted his gaze

<|output|> <|example|> yawning while I waited. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Immediately <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Immediately <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> ” John picked up a pen and toyed with it, trying to push back a wave of doubt <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 <|example|> ” “Ah, God,” he gasped, gazing up through the dense branches, wanting to prolong the exquisite pleasure throbbing in his body <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> He should not have hurt him so viciously <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> John reappears, his expression blissful <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> He'd just finished a double shift and was exhausted, heading straight to the shower after returning to Greg’s flat from the clinic <|indexes|> 6 6 <|example|> God, how he wishes he could take it all back, undo all the damage they've caused each other <|indexes|> 7 7 <|example|> Sherlock should not have ruined himself for John to save <|indexes|> 8 |

<|text|> to look up through the leaves. Staying was a fanciful notion, an impossibility, and a bit too dull, really. They both had far too much ambition. Still, it was a peaceful picture. “Of course.” John licked his lips, finding the courage to say more. “I remember every detail of that summer. Every moment.” Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood up. “Follow me in two minutes.” He walked away, heading toward the back of the pub. A crooked smile breaks across John’s face. “I’m not going home with anyone else, you idiot.” He leans forward in his chair, puts a hand on Sherlock’s knee to steady himself as he gazes into Sherlock’s eyes. “Don’t you know that by now?” They remained tangled together in an awkward embrace until it grew too uncomfortable. They shifted and Sherlock stood, gathering up his pyjamas and tying them into place. He vanished for a brief moment and returned with several folded canvas tarps. He arranged them on the floor, creating a makeshift bed. They nestled next to each other, hands resting on each other's legs. John covered his mouth with his own, their tongues soon twining in counterpoint to the strokes of John’s hand. Sherlock's brain stopped. He was nothing but sky and grass and flesh, blood rushing to his groin, a moan escaping from the back of his throat. Sherlock stared at John from his distant corner of the table, not sure which way he felt about him. Did he want to sleep with John, or simply He let his mind wander back to the club, how he had surreptitiously watched John in the swimming pool, remembering the way his shoulder muscles flexed as he sliced through the water, the charged tension between them in the changing room, the near brush of their lips in the alley, desire driving him to defy caution and kiss him by the fireplace. “Listen, there's something I wanted to tell you,” John continued after a moment. “I didn't want to just write it. I finally know where my unit’s being assigned.” John nods, takes a seat in one of the armchairs in front of the grate. Sherlock soon joins him, and they both train their gazes on the fire, glasses in hand. For a split second, the easy smile of the brown-haired young man on the bicycle flashed through his mind. People were drawn to someone like that, confident and good-looking. He bit at his thumbnail, suddenly curious to know who the stranger was. John undoes the second button, his eyes tracing down the tendons in Sherlock’s long neck, coming to rest on the delicate skin lining the hollow of his throat. He pauses, toying with anticipation, relishing the way Sherlock’s posture is both languid and tense, filling the room with a low vibration of need. “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” in order to frame McFarlane. Who does that? Nobody rational. If you want revenge, what sense does it make to set up your

<|output|> <|example|> to look up through the leaves. Staying was a fanciful notion, an impossibility, and a bit too dull, really. They both had far too much ambition. Still, it was a peaceful picture. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> If you want revenge, what sense does it make to set up your <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “Of course <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> They both had far too much ambition <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> ” Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood up <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> If you want revenge, what sense does it make to set up your <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster. Because the only answer to the question, “If she hates her that much, why doesn’t she just Bowen’s most inspired invention, though, was definitely the fight at the bank. I love everything about this. Holmes is up there on the balcony, effortlessly spinning out his story for the bank manager, and he looks back to Watson for backup as he so often has…and Watson’s not there. And Brett’s reaction to seeing Watson making a beeline for Green on the floor below is priceless. On the one hand, he has this look of absolute horror as he foresees the entire debacle about to unfold. And yet, there’s this fatalism about it even as he tries to stop him; because Holmes knows Watson’s gonna Watson and this impending disaster is in fact the Watsoniest thing Watson’s done in his whole life and what force on earth can stop him? This is basically everything he loves Watson for: his loyalty; his love for his friends; his willingness to put himself on the line for the people he cares about; his single-minded determination to do the right thing at all costs. Watson being Watson happens to be the worst thing that could happen at this particular moment. But part of that agonized expression on Holmes’s face is the pain of being torn between his knowledge of how disastrous this is and his affection for all the parts of Watson that are leading him to commit this blunder. This is all foreshadowed, in fact, in the opening scenes with the figurines, when Holmes picks up what appears to be a child’s building block, looks at it, and says, “Watson, you’re a brick.” Bricks are dense. They are, however, also sturdy, trusty, and to be relied upon; and you can’t build anything without them. is completely accurate; but Jones doesn’t act that way at all once they’re actually on the stakeout, because someone has to help Holmes do the exposition about Moriarty and that person can’t be such an imbecile that he hasn’t heard of Moriarty or doesn’t believe in him. But it is cool to see “Duncan Ross,” who’s very funny in a very understated way in his interactions with Jabez Wilson, reporting to Moriarty sans wig and eyebrows and deadly serious. (I also just appreciate in a meta sense the fact that “Ross” complains about people using wigs and paint to cheat, because Granada Holmes does the same; there are so, so, so many really bad wigs on this show, to say nothing of whiskers and moustaches that are clearly stuck on with spirit gum.) …though it’s hard to see what that was about, casewise, unless he just wanted a chance to go see a man about some sheep. Holmes’s irritation with his high-handed rich client is of course nothing new either ( “Scandal in Bohemia,” “Priory School,” etc.), but there are some nice little touches, like Holmes’s utter disgust for the vulgarly

<|output|> <|example|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster. Because the only answer to the question, “If she hates her that much, why doesn’t she just <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But part of that agonized expression on Holmes’s face is the pain of being torn between his knowledge of how disastrous this is and his affection for all the parts of Watson that are leading him to commit this blunder <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> This is all foreshadowed, in fact, in the opening scenes with the figurines, when Holmes picks up what appears to be a child’s building block, looks at it, and says, “Watson, you’re a brick <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Watson being Watson happens to be the worst thing that could happen at this particular moment <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> loud bell Ross uses to summon his servants: I mean what is the thinking here? Holmes has his own trademark funny hat, so Watson needs one too? Or did everyone in Victorian London don fezzes for celebrations? Whatever the thought process was, I feel about this fez the way River Song felt about Eleven’s: its soul-shattering intensity instead of having to be disappointed by the inevitable failure of its expression. All this means, unfortunately, that we lose something I always thought was really cool about the original story, which is Holmes explaining to Watson how his preconceptions about Lady Brackenstall colored his perceptions and led him to misinterpret or dismiss evidence that went against the narrative. Where ACD canon Holmes is bothered, after he leaves, by a nagging feeling that something’s wrong with the evidence, the impression created in the adaptation is that he’s already concluded that the whole scenario is fishy and the question he’s really debating is not, did Lady Brackenstall collude in covering up the murder of her husband, but will he or won’t he let her get away with it. In the adaptation this is considerably compressed–he and Watson have the conversation about those three damn wine glasses, of which perhaps more later, but that’s all–and Holmes’s second visit to the scene is expanded to include the discovery of the episode’s So in the adaptation, “Boscombe Valley” loses some of the canon story’s youthful exuberance; but it also gains some depth. In particular, I think, Hawkesworth uses this opportunity to give us a closer look at Holmes and Watson’s dynamics, and at the complexity of Holmes’s unofficial position. as if he were a real person–had made up some fanon about Violet Hunter which, even at the time, annoyed me, and which I cannot look back upon now without being filled with rage. Isaac S. George, in 1949, wrote a piece for the BSJ titled “Violet the Hunter” in which he argued that the case itself was essentially a put-up job and that Violet’s real goal throughout is to seduce Holmes. As evidence, he cited Violet’s occasional references to her own remarkable qualities (her “artistic” hair, her “naturally observant” personality), which she obviously could ONLY be pointing out in a brazen attempt to attract him, the winsomely beseeching tone of her telegram (”Do come!”), the fact that she smiles at him, and the fact that Holmes’s actual participation in this case is unusually peripheral. This theory became so popular in the boys’ club that used to be the official fandom that she became widely known as Violet the Hunter. In other words, as with Irene Adler, the boys could only explain the presence of a compelling and independent female character within an ACD story by turning her into a love interest. But this move is extra cruel in Violet’s case, because so much of the satisfaction the “Violet the Hunter” crowd derives from this fanon comes from the one-sidedness of VIolet’s crush and the implied humiliation of her failure as seductress. Irene Adler at least lives on in Holmes’s memory. Poor Violet fades immediately: according

<|output|> <|example|> loud bell Ross uses to summon his servants: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> As evidence, he cited Violet’s occasional references to her own remarkable qualities (her “artistic” hair, her “naturally observant” personality), which she obviously could ONLY be pointing out in a brazen attempt to attract him, the winsomely beseeching tone of her telegram (”Do come!”), the fact that she smiles at him, and the fact that Holmes’s actual participation in this case is unusually peripheral <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> Isaac S <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> Where ACD canon Holmes is bothered, after he leaves, by a nagging feeling that something’s wrong with the evidence, the impression created in the adaptation is that he’s already concluded that the whole scenario is fishy and the question he’s really debating is not, did Lady Brackenstall collude in covering up the murder of her husband, but will he or won’t he let her get away with it <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> loud bell Ross uses to summon his servants: I mean what is the thinking here? Holmes has his own trademark funny hat, so Watson needs one too? Or did everyone in Victorian London don fezzes for celebrations? Whatever the thought process was, I feel about this fez the way River Song felt about Eleven’s: its soul-shattering intensity instead of having to be disappointed by the inevitable failure of its expression <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> to Watson, Holmes “manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems.” , which was turned into quite a number of film adaptations, people mostly weren’t interested in dramatizing Doyle’s actual stories. It’s easy enough to see why; the short stories are often so compressed that it’s hard to see how you’d get a full-length film or even an hour-long episode out of them, the plotting is often sort of shoddy, and the preoccupations of late Victorians didn’t necessarily match up with those of twentieth-century viewers. For Young Plaidder, the big loss after “The Final Problem” was not Holmes–who everyone always knows now is coming back–but Watson. When the series resumed after the hiatus, Burke was unavailable, and Edward Hardwicke was cast as Watson. I don’t yet know how Brett handled the transition; but Young Plaidder could not. I am loyal by nature, and once I get attached to an actor, I find it hard to let go. And then there’s Bowen’s sexualization of Sarah Cushing, which goes beyond what’s in the original story and which is used to transfer the responsibility for Mary’s death from her actual killer to the woman who somehow made him do it. In the canon story, after all, we only have Browder’s word for it that Sarah was responsible for turning Mary against him. Even if that’s how Browder sees it, that’s no guarantee that it’s true; and in any case, by blaming Sarah for the breakup of their marriage, Browder is not only shifting the blame away from himself but denying Mary’s agency–which is just a preview of the way Browder violently cancels Mary’s agency forever by killing her. His own description of the murders, while it tries to create the impression that it happened in an uncontrollable and consciousness-threatening burst of rage, also shows that he was absolutely not acting on impulse; he spends a LONG time following them, has to make several active decisions to *keep* following them, and has plenty of time to think better of it and go home. The fact that he appears to have regretted the murders immediately doesn’t mean he didn’t consciously intend them. Browder himself thinks he should hang, and the canon story agrees. Bowen, on the other hand, seems to think that his killing of Mary was in some way excusable, and scripts a final encounter in the jail cell with the ghost of Mary which I found extremely squirmy, which appears to have been intended as an opportunity for Browder to show us how much he ‘really loves’ her. This comes right after Mrs. St. Clair hands a small coin to a child who’s standing outside a pub next to an adult wearing a placard reading “DESTITUTE.” The girl immediately runs into the pub, at which point the doors open and a flood of ragged, dirty children comes forth, all asking for money: This is the best Holmes novel Doyle ever wrote, containing some wonderful writing for both Holmes and Watson, and it comes with enough atmosphere to fill out a

<|output|> <|example|> to Watson, Holmes “manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His own description of the murders, while it tries to create the impression that it happened in an uncontrollable and consciousness-threatening burst of rage, also shows that he was absolutely not acting on impulse; he spends a LONG time following them, has to make several active decisions to *keep* following them, and has plenty of time to think better of it and go home <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> In the canon story, after all, we only have Browder’s word for it that Sarah was responsible for turning Mary against him <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the episode than a typical Granada adaptation. The characters and the main events of the plot are preserved, but integrated into a very different and more modern kind of story. And I have to say that until we get to the graveside drama, I was totally on board with this. It’s a shame to lose the Turkish bath conversation; but although it’s slightly hokey, Holmes’s sinister play with the figurines is compelling in a different way. After the lethargy of HOB, it’s such a relief to see Holmes snapping into action, yelling for Mrs. Hudson, firing off his telegram, and setting the whole beehive a-buzzing. Watson gets genuinely invested in Lady Frances and makes us genuinely care about her. (This also raises the possibility that Holmes goes out there at least partly because he’s worried Watson may be a little TOO into her, but I’m not going to go down that road at this time.) Including the Earl as a character was a fantastic decision; it gives us a chance to see who Frances is and what she’s been fighting all her life, AND it gives us another chance to watch Holmes school an asshole aristocrat, which he does beautifully. Is that a…wind-up…oh please tell me that is not some kind of hideously embarrassing Victorian wind-up monkey toy… And so I love the ending of this episode, with Watson eagerly showing off his new decoding skills, Martin listening attentively, and Holmes being snarky to himself and yet also proud of how well his protege is doing with the explanation. But the best moment is after Martin’s gone and Watson asks Holmes what he put in his note to Abe Slaney. “Read it yourself,” Holmes says, and tosses the note to him. Watson looks at it, parses the words sort of slowly, and then just looks up and says, with that smile again, “Come here at once.” Holmes smiles back. “How absurdly simple.” And sadly, they cut away just before they leap into each other’s arms. Well, all right, I don’t KNOW that. But I do know that from start to finish, this has been about showing us that Watson has the intellectual capacity to become a real partner to Holmes–in the business sense, of course. And that was, at the time, a major change in his characterization; and you can see the consequences in any modern adaptation you look at. Let me say up front that although it has some cultural and historical interest, as a story I’ve never liked “The Crooked Man” much. Like “The Engineer’s Thumb” and “The Five Orange Pips,” “The Crooked Man” seems to be just using Holmes’s investigation as an excuse to tell a sensational story about something else. “The Crooked Man” is mostly told rather than shown; Holmes has already done almost all the investigation before he drops by Watson’s place to ask if he wants to be in at the kill, and a few paragraphs later they’ve found Harry Wood and he then

<|output|> <|example|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It’s a shame to lose the Turkish bath conversation; but although it’s slightly hokey, Holmes’s sinister play with the figurines is compelling in a different way <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> launches into his own narrative. Watson does almost nothing, and the investigation is rendered completely irrelevant after the coroner determines that Barclay died of apoplexy. If I’d been running the series, I personally would have left this one alone. See…I videotaped these–YES! I TAPED these episodes as they were broadcast on PBS, using a VCR, so that I could watch them later, because that was THE ONLY WAY TO DO THAT at the time–and I watched them kind of a lot. These opening credits were my friends. “Natasha Richardson,” I would say, in the days long before IMDB was thought of. “Wonder if she’s related to Miranda Richardson. Well, she was good, anyway.” Once they get back to 221B, things get more serious as their perspectives start to diverge. The way Holmes leads Ryder into his little trap once they get indoors is really a little bit scary. I mean if anyone ever asks you to draw your chair up to the fire in the tone of voice Jeremy Brett uses at that moment, RUN AWAY. He’s obviously furious with Ryder over the way he’s framed Horner— he looked like he was ignoring Watson’s recitation of the newspaper article, but now suddenly Holmes has total recall of all the details—but at first, it’s cold anger, wrapped in a velvety soft voice that almost makes it seem inviting. Watson pretty much drops out of the action, watching Holmes reduce Ryder to a quivering jelly, and then looking on aghast as Holmes lets him go. When Watson says he’s “surprised,” and Holmes snaps back at him, the emotions on both sides are all of a sudden intense and antagonistic. You see, for a moment, how deep the divisions go. Watson didn’t approve of letting Joseph Harrison go in “Naval Treaty” either. In this case, there really are no extenuating circumstances, and Holmes isn’t protecting anyone; one can only assume that he really does hate prisons and doesn’t want to put someone who’s not already violent into one. Watson, who speaks of his Army years as if they were the best time of his life, can’t see Britain and its institutions the same way Holmes does. But just as it looks like this might turn into an argument, the bells ring, and it’s Christmas. What happens to Lady Frances at the end of this episode is truly awful. The woman who ran herself into all this danger by holding on fiercely to her independence is now apparently so damaged by the chloroform and suffocation that she can no longer speak or walk without assistance. Instead, she’s a dependent, apparently in the sole care of Green–the man she was trying to get away from when she first “disappeared.” Watson is characteristically looking on the bright side, saying there’s “every hope for a full recovery,” but Holmes is not encouraged. He sees this case as a failure, and he’s right. They’ve saved her life; but Lady Frances, *as* Lady Frances, appears to have disappeared forever. And yet, there’s really nothing he could have done. The deck was always stacked against Holmes, and against poor

<|output|> <|example|> launches into his own narrative. Watson does almost nothing, and the investigation is rendered completely irrelevant after the coroner determines that Barclay died of apoplexy. If I’d been running the series, I personally would have left this one alone. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> I mean if anyone ever asks you to draw your chair up to the fire in the tone of voice Jeremy Brett uses at that moment, RUN AWAY <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> When Watson says he’s “surprised,” and Holmes snaps back at him, the emotions on both sides are all of a sudden intense and antagonistic <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> Lady Frances–because she has too much autonomy, and yet at the same time not enough. She’s smart enough and strong enough to resist all the pressure and live her own life; and yet she’s also been made, somewhat arbitrarily, gullible enough to fall for Peters’s act. In most of the earlier stories about male predators, the predator is working without the victim’s knowledge or consent. Here and in “Illustrious Client,” Holmes and Watson can’t respect the victim’s desires, because what the victim desires is her own destruction. Holmes and Watson are pretty good players by now, but you can’t beat the house. Now, some of this is slightly mitigated when Neville is finally unmasked (I’m coming to that in a minute) and he tells the story of what really happened. In that sequence, at least, “the Lascar” is shown to be acting out of loyalty to him rather than out of cruelty to Mrs. St. Clair, and gets to be non-menacing and articulate for a couple minutes. But overall, not only does the scent of Orientalism remain strong, it pervades the whole production. I must say in all fairness that the adapter here is only following the Everything Should Come From Canon rule, because as Milligan argues, Holmes is described in “Twisted Lip” in very orientalizing terms, especially as he sits up all night smoking tobacco and dreaming his dreams. But I don’t know if it was really necessary to do the whole Buddha/enlightenment thing: When I saw “Twisted Lip” was up next, my first thought was: Do I have to? Do I really? To call the canon story ‘problematic’ would be an understatement; it is a festival of late Victorian prejudices. How, if your brand is being faithful to canon, are you going to take a plot which combines Orientalism, racism, and classism with contempt for the disabled and the poor and make a silk purse out of that sow’s ear? "This is one of those occasions," said Holmes, "when I take no pleasure in being proved right. Surely you know that." To the extent that this prevents them from replicating Doyle’s fascination with phrenology and giving Beppo the “simian” muzzle that is supposed to indicate his status as a subhuman congenital criminal, I am grateful. (So much Lombroso in ACD canon. SO. MUCH.) Unfortunately this also means we get to watch Lucretia’s brother, Pietro, spend a solid minute screaming at Lucretia about what a whore she is and how she’s dishonoring the family, while smacking her in the head, right before he runs outside to go on a violent spree which ends with him getting into a knife fight with Beppo. All of this dialogue is in Italian, by the way, and none of it’s subtitled–at least not in the digital version I was watching. However, I kind of speak Opera Italian, and that’s really all you need to get the gist–since Italian opera librettos will teach you most of the more common words for “love,” “dishonor,” “vengeance,” “you whore,” and “I’ll kill him.” I will call it first relative to the story as written; and then I will talk about how the Granada adaptation

<|output|> <|example|> Lady Frances–because she has too much autonomy, and yet at the same time not enough. She’s smart enough and strong enough to resist all the pressure and live her own life; and yet she’s also been made, somewhat arbitrarily, gullible enough to fall for Peters’s act. In most of the earlier stories about male predators, the predator is working without the victim’s knowledge or consent. Here and in “Illustrious Client,” Holmes and Watson can’t respect the victim’s desires, because what the victim desires is her own destruction. Holmes and Watson are pretty good players by now, but you can’t beat the house. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> She’s smart enough and strong enough to resist all the pressure and live her own life; and yet she’s also been made, somewhat arbitrarily, gullible enough to fall for Peters’s act <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> In that sequence, at least, “the Lascar” is shown to be acting out of loyalty to him rather than out of cruelty to Mrs <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> ) Unfortunately this also means we get to watch Lucretia’s brother, Pietro, spend a solid minute screaming at Lucretia about what a whore she is and how she’s dishonoring the family, while smacking her in the head, right before he runs outside to go on a violent spree which ends with him getting into a knife fight with Beppo <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> All of this dialogue is in Italian, by the way, and none of it’s subtitled–at least not in the digital version I was watching <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her. , caught up in yet another entailment plot, dispossessed by yet another asshole cousin, and this time NOT go gently into that genteel poverty. Holmes low-key ragging Watson about his attraction to her is sort of endearing– “You’ve already had your head turned, I’d better make sure you don’t break your neck”–and of course this is a great story for Mrs. Hudson, finally just straight up says to him, “You are the worst tenant in the whole of London.” If this were the first episode of this show that you watched, you wouldn’t tune in for a second. But as it is…in this episode, the show does more or less succeed in carrying him. Thank heavens for small mercies. I don’t expect it will last. I pushed a parcel of Christmas crackers aside and sat down slowly on the settee. I tore open the envelope and drew out the folded sheets within. I transcribe the text of the covering letter below. . And mostly, I haven’t really had much occasion to do comparisons, except when it came to “Empty House.” Nevertheless, while this review is going to focus mainly on the Granada episode and the adaptation–especially the way Jeremy Paul, who also adapted “Speckled Band” and “Naval Treaty” for Granada, manages to make a compelling hour of television out of a story I’ve never had any time for–I am going to talk about the profound influence that I believe this specific episode had, not only on Brett and Burke’s teamwork in this episode is outstanding, and that is probably what I’m going to spend most of my time talking about. But there are some very odd things about “The Blue Carbuncle” as a story that this adaptation doesn’t iron out—most of them relating directly to the blue carbuncle itself. It’s striking how Watson’s final comment on Holmes as a “benefactor of the race” works just as well as an introduction to his character for new readers as it does as a kind of summation of Holmes just before his death. Holmes discharges his benefactor function in several ways in this episode, the main one being extorting money out of the asshole banker for both himself and Watson and for Jabez Wilson, whose pawnshop gets destroyed during the melee. Brett’s performance has so much flash and sparkle and surface variation; but the foundation’s always the same. And it reminds us in advance of what we’re about to lose. In Bowen’s adaptation, Watson is still kind of an idiot; but he’s not stupid. When Watson fucks up in this story–and he does, epically, at the bank–it’s because he’s trying to protect his friend, and directly confronting Green is the only way he can see of doing it. Unlike the canon story, Bowen’s script gives Watson excellent reasons to believe that Green is the abductor. Not only does Watson probably have flashbacks to Carruthers every time he looks at the guy, but he has seen how Lady Frances reacts to him. He knows she wants him to stay away and that he

<|output|> <|example|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> And mostly, I haven’t really had much occasion to do comparisons, except when it came to “Empty House <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> refuses to do so. He recognizes Green, in other words, as the stalker that he is; and it is completely reasonable for him to infer on that basis that Green is the villain of the piece. But no, I don’t actually, because my point is that Brett’s Holmes is haptic, and that’s one of the main things that makes his performance compelling. This is one of the things Brett pulled out of the stories that earlier interpreters had failed to bring to life. Watson always seems to be paying attention to Holmes’s hands, which are active and eloquent and sensitive and, at moments of great intensity, not infrequently fastened suddenly to some part of Watson’s person. Haptic people make good violinists. Brett does not spend a lot of time holding a violin–I’m assuming he didn’t play or wasn’t comfortable with it for some reason–so he brings it through at every possible other opportunity. I mean even when he’s diving for that stolen document in “Second Stain,” watch the hands: birthday is a pretty wild ride, and I won’t spoil it for anyone who hasn’t read this novel. Suffice it to say that the jewel and its curse give Collins a means of working through some very interesting questions about responsibility and guilt, especially as relates to the British colonization of India and the aristocracy’s treatment of the ‘lower’ classes, as well as some delightful occasions for skewering Victorian morality. Continuing the Granada Holmes rewatch, we move to one of my favorites: “The Dancing Men.” This is one of the classic Holmes stories, and the best one about Holmes as code-breaker. It presents some challenges to the would-be adapter, because so much of the story is about Holmes solving the code, and it’s very difficult to dramatize that. But Anthony Skene, who wrote the teleplay, was an experienced hand at the mystery adaptation, and he does two really smart things here, one of which would have a major impact on adaptations to come. One, he spends a lot of time fleshing out the tragic story of Hilton Cubitt and his wife Elsie, showing her panic and deterioration and his (always almost-repressed, of course) emotional turmoil as the screw turns and the situation goes from bad to worse. Two, he turns this into a story about Holmes and Watson teaching each other. This hammers some nails in the coffins of the two biggest adaptation cliches that the Granada people were trying to kill: Unemotional Holmes and Stupid Watson. In general, the grotesquerie that Doyle attached to the cook is developed by Hammond in relationship to Murillo/Henderson, who doesn’t really appear in the canon story. Senora Durango, once she revives, speaks of the “rivers of blood” shed by Murillo in San Pedro, and Hammond seems to have taken that as his text; Murillo wears red jewelry and sees visitors in a red throne room which doubles as a theater for his devilish torture rituals: them. A concentrated point of beauty and brilliance, misprized by a dull-witted world that values only what it can multiply." Combat, also, does not appear to have been a strength

<|output|> <|example|> refuses to do so. He recognizes Green, in other words, as the stalker that he is; and it is completely reasonable for him to infer on that basis that Green is the villain of the piece. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> refuses to do so <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> In general, the grotesquerie that Doyle attached to the cook is developed by Hammond in relationship to Murillo/Henderson, who doesn’t really appear in the canon story <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> ” This is one of the classic Holmes stories, and the best one about Holmes as code-breaker <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Brett does not spend a lot of time holding a violin–I’m assuming he didn’t play or wasn’t comfortable with it for some reason–so he brings it through at every possible other opportunity <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> of the Granada team. The boxing scene in “Solitary Cyclist” is really the only point at which I’ve ever fully believed in Brett’s fight scenes. The new Fight on the Ledge makes it look as if “baritsu” is the Japanese art of kneeing your opponent in the nuts and then pushing him over while he’s screaming. It’s also unfathomable to me why anyone asked or allowed Brett to let out a giant “YAAAAAAAA!” while he pounces on Moran. …oh my God. It’s a monkey in Eastern Garb smoking a hookah and sitting on a music box that plays a tinkly little version of the title music. All right, we’ve seen it now, can it please go away… But to me the most important thing this episode offers is an image of human perseverance in the face of the inevitable. I know some fans argue that they should have stopped making the series after “Case Book.” I can see merit to that position. What’s on record in “Three Gables” is not a great performance or a masterful dramatization of a classic Sherlock Holmes story. But it is a record of someone living through the shitstorm that is human mortality, just trying to get the best out of the body that you have and the time you’re given, trying to hold onto as much life as you can while you’re dying. Maybe you have to be who I am and where I am right now to value that. But I find that I do; and I’m grateful for that. Casting Jude Law as the stable lad who dresses up as Lady Beatrice makes this an entirely different kind of drag act. Joe the stable lad is really rather beautiful here; and in the next scene, when Holmes is getting Sir Robert to fess up, Joe’s crying in the background while Carrie comforts him. During one of the flashback scenes from Sir Robert’s confession, we see Robert sitting in the crypt, crying over Beatrice’s coffin. Joe is behind him, and puts a hand on his shoulder gently for a few moments before finally withdrawing it. The difference between the boyfriend as he had been presenting to her (and us) and the boyfriend revealed in those journal entries was STARTLING. He wrote about her personally in shockingly demeaning terms; but I think what definitively ended it for V was his description of participating in an especially vile form of sex tourism. And honestly, you would never have known from interacting with him. From what I hear from straight women, this is not uncommon. Evidently a lot of men learn how to simulate a personality in order to attract women they want to sleep with, inhabiting it so effortlessly that it can take a long time for the target to find out what he’s really like. Anyway. My point is that ending with that scene on the ice, and Holmes’s final speech, is a fitting conclusion for the series in many ways. It gives Brett the last words, which is only right. It speaks to Brett’s own suffering, which the show has become unable to conceal from

<|output|> <|example|> of the Granada team. The boxing scene in “Solitary Cyclist” is really the only point at which I’ve ever fully believed in Brett’s fight scenes. The new Fight on the Ledge makes it look as if “baritsu” is the Japanese art of kneeing your opponent in the nuts and then pushing him over while he’s screaming. It’s also unfathomable to me why anyone asked or allowed Brett to let out a giant “YAAAAAAAA!” while he pounces on Moran. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Evidently a lot of men learn how to simulate a personality in order to attract women they want to sleep with, inhabiting it so effortlessly that it can take a long time for the target to find out what he’s really like <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> But I find that I do; and I’m grateful for that <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. this rewatch has been kind of a masochistic exercise. “The Cardboard Box” is definitely not one of Granada’s better episodes. But as show finales go…well, I’m an So my hypothesis is that Doyle picked out the gravesite first and then had to figure out how to get Holmes and Moriarty to it, and that explains Holmes’s apparently boneheaded decision to ‘escape’ Moriarty by eloping with Watson. But of course this is useless as fanon. Fandom’s ultimately goal, really, is to bury the author, because the impossible desire driving fandom is always to make the imaginary real. An ill-concealed authorial intervention like the continental holiday is obnoxious to fans because it reminds us that our favorite character is an artificial construct. So one of the earliest fan theories formulated was that the whole trip was an elaborate attempt on Holmes’s part to assassinate Thus transformed, “The Cardboard Box” acquires a kind of twisted irony that seems very modern to me, and very different from the canon story. Rereading “Cardboard Box,” I was surprised at how much I liked it. I thought maybe this was one of those adult-perspective-changes-things moments; but then I recalled that I must have liked it before, too, because “ It seems to me, from the context the adaptation gives it, that this speech becomes less about providence than about love. Because one thing Holmes has definitely noticed is that Percy gets a lot of love, and that it’s expressed through touch. The first thing Watson does when he walks in is go over to Percy and take his hand in both of his own. When Percy gets overexcited and has an attack, Annie and Watson work together to get him his medicine, and the camera focuses on Watson’s hands as he supports Percy’s head and administers the dose. Right before Holmes goes to his mark for what’s eventually going to be the start of the rose speech, there’s a reaction shot of him watching Percy holding Annie’s hand and kissing it in gratitude. And then he goes over and–uncharacteristically, Doyle tells us–starts handling a rose. all this information is committing it to paper. Up to the late nineteenth century, writing has largely been a very concrete and material process in which a unique human body wrestles with a collection of unique objects. The intimacy thus enforced between writer and text is something exploited again and again by Holmes, who realizes how many traces the material text retains of the person who composed it. But in the 1890s, that intimacy is already under threat. New technologies have developed for transferring information to paper. The typewriter is coming into vogue (see “A Case of

<|output|> <|example|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Fandom’s ultimately goal, really, is to bury the author, because the impossible desire driving fandom is always to make the imaginary real <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> “The Cardboard Box” is definitely not one of Granada’s better episodes <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> But in the 1890s, that intimacy is already under threat <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Up to the late nineteenth century, writing has largely been a very concrete and material process in which a unique human body wrestles with a collection of unique objects <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> Identity”), and the telegraph has for the first time allowed for text composed in one location to appear almost instantaneously a different location. ’s take on this is, characteristically, freakier). This means visual parallels between Moriarty and Sherlock are an adaptation cliche (again, If you think about it from the point of view of the investigation, though, what happens is that Holmes blows his own cover after being on the job for all of five minutes. He’s evidently too involved in getting the dirt from the bartender to pay attention to his surroundings, and doesn’t realize one of the subjects he’s investigating is actually in the pub with him, listening to him ask questions about him. Holmes can’t go back to that pub now, and he’s never going to get any more information about the situation or the people involved than he already has. The only new piece of information he’s discovered is that Woodley is staying with Williamson at Charlington Hall on the weekends. He still doesn’t know who the cyclist is–or at least he doesn’t know any more than he did before he went down there–and he’s not in a position where he can take action to protect Violet. In other words, as much as he enjoyed pasting Woodley, as a detective, Holmes has also done remarkably badly. Another bit of good adapting is the explanation of the body in the fire. This fixes a problem with canon–I know they didn’t have forensic anthropologists back then, but could Scotland Yard REALLY have been faked out “with a dead dog or rabbits”?–with something suggested but never followed up in canon. When he’s trying to come up with an alternative theory that would explain Lestrade’s evidence, he says, well, suppose a tramp was passing by, saw what was going on, snuck in thinking he could steal something valuable, and then brained Oldacre. This isn’t much of a theory in canon, but Harris turns it into its own little B-plot by giving the tramp an identity and making him Oldacre’s victim instead of his murderer. This allows Holmes to do one of the disguise things he loves so much; and it also actually verifies What I love about this is how quickly both of these actors establish the depth of the relationship. Watson’s reaction to the sight of the syringe is so intense and so immediate that you know this has been source of conflict for them for a long time. Holmes reacts in what he knows will be a maddeningly understated way. As the conversation develops, we realize that there are other layers to this. Watson is angry partly because he’s coming home from a long trip and instead of getting to just settle in and enjoy being warm and dry and cozy, they have to have THIS argument again. The running gag started in this episode about Watson’s appetite–he’s always hungry, and Holmes never is, and it seems like at all times Watson is devoting significant bandwidth to ensuring his own access to food–stands in for a more poignant disappointment: coming home to Holmes is never

<|output|> <|example|> Identity”), and the telegraph has for the first time allowed for text composed in one location to appear almost instantaneously a different location. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> As the conversation develops, we realize that there are other layers to this <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> The running gag started in this episode about Watson’s appetite–he’s always hungry, and Holmes never is, and it seems like at all times Watson is devoting significant bandwidth to ensuring his own access to food–stands in for a more poignant disappointment: coming home to Holmes is never <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> He’s evidently too involved in getting the dirt from the bartender to pay attention to his surroundings, and doesn’t realize one of the subjects he’s investigating is actually in the pub with him, listening to him ask questions about him <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> as comforting as Watson wants it to be. There are always the “moods” to deal with–moods which, it appears, are partly Holmes’s way of getting back at Watson for leaving him in the first place. Holmes even implies, at the end of this confrontation, that he left the syringe visible on purpose: “You my close that drawer. You have made the wrong diagnosis, Doctor! This is my stimulant.” And he hands him the King of Bohemia’s letter. * Snakes don’t have external ears. We used to think that meant snakes couldn’t hear, but it turns out they can. However, according to this interesting explanation of how scientists figured out how snakes can hear, There are some Sherlock Holmes stories that are classics. There are some that have major problems but continue to endear themselves to the public. There are some in which one tiny nugget of gold is buried in a vast swamp of tedium. And then there are some that need to just be left in the battered tin dispatch box of Doyle’s craziness. “The Creeping Man” is one of those. It is true that, during the early decades of the twentieth century, With a heavy heart, I turned to Sutherland's report. It was indeed quite professional. It informed me that through the society papers Sutherland had traced Sir George Burnville's movements back to the fateful night last winter when Miss Mary Holder helped that scoundrel steal the the beryl coronet. Sutherland had methodically visited the scenes of Burnville's old debauches and past revelries, inquiring in her unobtrusive way about the company he had been seen to keep. She learned that Miss Mary Holder had indeed flown with Sir George Burnville after the missing beryls were recovered--at first, to the Riviera, where for a month she no doubt enjoyed all the glittering pleasures available to the mistress of a debased rogue who suddenly finds himself with three thousand pounds of someone else's money in his pocket. Upon returning to London, Miss Mary Holder was passed--let that word draw a veil over the loathsome details of a loathsome transaction--to a gentleman friend of Sir George Burnville's, and then to another. Then, finally, to a woman who offered Miss Holder room and board--and, inevitably, the only employment available to a young and pretty woman with no money, no character, no connections, and no family. So Watson’s quite aware of how he’s been played; and he makes his peace with it. And this is just one of those wonderful nuances that get into the Holmes/Watson relationship over the course of the Granada series. Holmes’s line about the fresh air killing him–which is not in the canon story–is consistent with Holmes’s canon characterization (ACD canon Holmes, as I have observed, loves London pollution and hates country air). But it also continues a little sub-narrative about Holmes, Watson, and holidays that they’ve been developing since “Musgrave Ritual.” At some point during all this, Holmes indicates a box of cigars, and says, “you see, I was not unmindful of your return.” The way Brett does that, melancholy with just a touch of petulance, just says

<|output|> <|example|> as comforting as Watson wants it to be. There are always the “moods” to deal with–moods which, it appears, are partly Holmes’s way of getting back at Watson for leaving him in the first place. Holmes even implies, at the end of this confrontation, that he left the syringe visible on purpose: “You my close that drawer. You have made the wrong diagnosis, Doctor! This is my stimulant.” And he hands him the King of Bohemia’s letter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It informed me that through the society papers Sutherland had traced Sir George Burnville's movements back to the fateful night last winter when Miss Mary Holder helped that scoundrel steal the the beryl coronet <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! So basically, this episode shows you the best and the worst of Granada. The final scene with them smoking in 221B in their honest to God smoking jackets is quite heartwarming; Holmes is still training Watson without Watson realizing it, and it’s very sweet. But the flashbacks never quite deliver the reality effect that would really allow us to feel for Henry Wood and his undeniably tragic story. Ah well. On to THE SPECKLED BAND! by what Lestrade is saying to him, he is on the verge of tears. And yes, as Doyle says, this is Holmes showing that he can in fact be emotionally affected by the “praise of an old friend.” But this is also Holmes caught between conflicting emotions as he listens to this praise "Your readers will think I pocketed that bauble, and deprived Peterson of the reward he is currently enjoying--" what he did to Watson by deceiving him. His experience of those three years was completely different from Watson’s. For Holmes, those years were about cheating death: staying one step ahead of the assassins until he could come back home and shut them down for good. For Watson, the same years were about accepting Holmes’s death and learning to live with it. As much fun as they’ve been having since “Empty House,” they’re still far apart in ways they don’t want to talk about. . This is the same police force, remember, that since 1885 has been empowered by the Criminal Law Amendment Act to arrest any man they catch having really any kind of erotic contact with any other man. What you see there is the heartbreaking ambivalence of the outsider who sees himself being recognized and validated by the insider. It’s never occurred to him that his relationship with the “official” detectives could ever be anything but antagonistic. It’s never occurred to him that Lestrade might genuinely appreciate Holmes and his “theories”–that Lestrade, after years of scoffing at Holmes and his methods and yet profiting off them all the same, should tell Holmes to be It must have been a huge relief to him. That, and the fact that since Holmes is faking it, it wasn’t going to matter

<|output|> <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> This is the same police force, remember, that since 1885 has been empowered by the Criminal Law Amendment Act to arrest any man they catch having really any kind of erotic contact with any other man <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> if he got it right. The more exaggerated and over the top things got, the better it would be. God, if Lord Bellinger and Trelawney Hope–or Sherlock Holmes, for that matter–could have known that one day there would be such a thing as Donald Trump’s Twitter account, it would have killed them all. But they didn’t know how good they had it; and so they were very, very, very anxious about all their sensitive documents. The late Victorians were living in an information age too; but everything had to be done on paper. That would perhaps explain all the blackmailing that seems to get done in Doyle’s stories; if every time you want to make a date with your secret lover you have to send him something in writing, using a servant as intermediary, the odds are good that at some point you’re going to be in Milverton’s office trying to buy the fucking thing back. And obviously, paper is a big part of Doyle’s imagination of international intrigue. After all, if they’re that worried about the damn letter, Hope et al. could have burned it. But no, they saved it thinking they could get some use out of it in some future diplomatic crisis; and now it’s disappeared, and they’re fucked. You know, these moments are fleeting and you can’t hold them long. But it’s nice to know that even in 2017, you can still feel the joy they captured on this day over 30 years ago, when Brett and Hardwicke were still alive and kicking, and it was always 1895. Most of what happens after this is Holmes walking Watson through the evidence and the deductions; but the main thing he wants to hear from Watson is what to do about the fact that the murderer is a dying man–and also the father of the very girl who has been pleading with them so earnestly to find the real killer. When he hears Turner’s story, and about how McCarthy had been blackmailing him for years, Holmes makes the decision to try to shield McCarthy. We don’t find out much about how Watson reacts to any of this; but we do get Holmes’s commentary on it: "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. eventually john cleared his throat and sherlock knew that that meant that he had decided it was time to confront whatever was on his mind. "he told me about your time at school," john stated and took a sip of his tea. taking both cups with him he went over to the couch, handing john his cup before sitting down next to him. they both drank a few sips of their respective cups, the quiet noises from the tv the only thing that provided some distraction, though both men's attentions lay elsewhere. "i don't assume, john, i know. your laptop changed position but is also entirely cooled off, the thing is old, takes ages to get back to this level of coldness

<|output|> <|example|> if he got it right. The more exaggerated and over the top things got, the better it would be. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Most of what happens after this is Holmes walking Watson through the evidence and the deductions; but the main thing he wants to hear from Watson is what to do about the fact that the murderer is a dying man–and also the father of the very girl who has been pleading with them so earnestly to find the real killer <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> After all, if they’re that worried about the damn letter, Hope et al <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> We don’t find out much about how Watson reacts to any of this; but we do get Holmes’s commentary on it: "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> But they didn’t know how good they had it; and so they were very, very, very anxious about all their sensitive documents <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> so you used it at least a few hours ago. your jacket is cold, you put it there a considerable while ago, and you wouldn't go out without a jacket in this weather so you were at home. the tea you left for me-" he recalled their conversation from that case, one of the first ones they had solved together, or rather that sherlock had solved during his friendship with john. in that brief exchange of words the bank employee had mentioned that he had in fact attended the same university as sherlock and john cleared his throat. "so, you and sherlock went to school together?" he inquired, trying to break the tense silence even if it was a rather weak attempt at it. "who says he told me anything, i wasn't in his office for that long," john shot back and leaned against the couch cushions, wondering how long he'd be able to play this game. exactly until now, it turned out a few minutes later. retrieving some clean clothes from his bedroom he then headed into the adjacent bathroom. nowadays he didn't use the bedroom a lot anymore, more often than not opting to sleep in john's bedroom with the other man instead. the only times he still used his bedroom for actually sleeping was when the two had had an argument or sherlock returned home at such a ridiculously late hour that he didn't feel like possibly waking john while slipping into bed. "oh," sherlock responded simply and once again took the excuse of focusing his attention on the now whistling kettle. "tea?" he asked, already taking out two cups before john had responded with "yes please" and filling them both with a routinely ease. when sherlock returned to the flat after providing scotland yard with the solution to the case he found the living room empty. hanging his coat next to john's jacket he considered that the other should at least be home, the fresh cup in the sink and the changed position of the laptop supporting that claim. "yes, he tends to do that sometimes," john agreed, really only to have something to say at all. he felt like he was hearing things not meant for his ears. the last time they had spoken, sherlock had stopped sebastian before he could mention any details, but now with him not present, john felt like he might just hear a lot more of the things that sherlock would rather not have him know about. You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. - If we didn’t live together, I would ask you if you want to come up for tea. John smiled at Sherlock who looked a bit concerned. - When our father died a couple of weeks ago, I and Maggie inherited all our fathers’ belongings. We were about to do an inventory and that’s when we noticed

<|output|> <|example|> so you used it at least a few hours ago. your jacket is cold, you put it there a considerable while ago, and you wouldn't go out without a jacket in this weather so you were at home. the tea you left for me-" <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> the last time they had spoken, sherlock had stopped sebastian before he could mention any details, but now with him not present, john felt like he might just hear a lot more of the things that sherlock would rather not have him know about <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> so you used it at least a few hours ago <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> Every open surface was full of papers and books <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> retrieving some clean clothes from his bedroom he then headed into the adjacent bathroom <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> "so, you and sherlock went to school together?" he inquired, trying to break the tense silence even if it was a rather weak attempt at it <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. - Any box will do. I haven’t gotten to the films yet but it seems that the bank saves records of visits to the safe deposit boxes for five years but I only asked for the last year’s records. They only save the films for six months. See if you can find Mr Bryce name somewhere or if anything else looks suspicious. John sighed at the sheer boredom of the task, but he opened a box and put some papers in front of him and started to read. There was nothing else to it. Most of the papers where logs from the door to the safe deposit room. Every client had a personal security card to access the room. John eyed the list after Mr Bryce or his children but didn’t find much. He sensed Sherlock had as much luck. He had started pacing the room. After two hours of reading John could tell that Mr Bryce didn’t acess his deposit box that often, and that it looked like he hadn’t visited it for the last six months of his life. To get a break, he told Sherlock he needed to do some shopping. He was roaming the isles of tesco's, not wanting to go home too soon. He got a text from Sherlock when he had finally finished his shopping and was heading home “I got an idea, going out” was the message. “Don’t forget dinner tonight” John replied but he didn’t get an answer. But on hour before they needed to leave for the dinner party Sherlock returned. He didn’t say a word to John, just disappeared into his room. He emerged forty minutes later dressed in a black suit and red shirt. His face looked like he was going to his execution. Without saying a word, he took his coat and opened the door. He left it open for John as he descended the stairs. John himself wasn’t particularly looking forward to the evening, and it would be even more dull if Sherlock was sulking the whole time. - Could you explain to me why we are visiting Mrs Gordon's childhood friend? Sherlock was about to step out of the elevator but he stopped and turned around. “It’s quite easy really John. I love you, you don’t love me and I… well I guess you could call it heartbroken” All Sherlock's energy went into standing there, speaking in a calm voice. Most of all he wanted to flee, he could feel the muscles in his legs twitching. But the words were out there now. He needed to endure just a bit longer and then this conversation would be over. Maybe his friendship with John as well. If he stayed there was hope he could convince John that his feelings were nothing important and that they could continue as before. If he left now and left John alone to ponder, he would most definitely come to his own and wrongful conclusions

<|output|> <|example|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> But the words were out there now <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> that Sherlock being in love with John meant that they couldn’t be friends or colleagues. “I don’t know!” John was screaming now. He flung out his arms and fell down into his armchair. Raising his hands to cover his face. “I took your pulse, that day. When you… When you jumped.” John seemed to be struggling to get his words out. Sherlock almost wanted him to start yelling again. Something that wasn’t this broken voice a tremble from a sob. “There you go.” John said. Sherlock pulled his hands over his face, embarrassed by the tears and total lack of control. John sat still for a while, fighting the feeling of dread in his stomach. He was in trouble. His small infatuation with Mr Holmes had gone from a small irritation to a bigger problem, especially if it would affect a students grade. He waited impatiently for Mr Holmes to come back. He came on the second two hours after John had last seen him. John had started to pack up his things with nervous glances towards the door. He stepped just inside the door and held his hand out with the card in it. John walked up to him and took the card. Mycroft can’t keep away. It was his idea I took this class in the first place. He thought keeping busy would keep me from using. Sherlock had started pacing. John stood motionless, this conversation was rapidly spinning out of any sort of control. Okay, and I love you, so I see no reason why we shouldn’t try this out. I can’t make any promises. Most people find me annoying, I’m rubbish at taking feelings into account. I will probably hurt you on a regular basis. I’m easily bored, maybe I will grow tired of this in a week. But if you’ll have me I’m yours. John knew that it shouldn’t be but it was the most romantic thing someone had ever said to him. - They want to make sure there’s nothing on the films that we’re not supposed to see. If someone mixed with the tapes they could be useless to us, he said. John was quiet. He had learned that is was the best approach when Sherlock was like this. He had tried to watch some TV but Sherlock had told him the end halfway through the movie so he went to bed early. The boxes must have arrived later in the evening; it looked like Sherlock had been reading for a while. There were papers scattered around him in various piles. John made two cups of tea and some toast. He put one cup and a piece of toast next to Sherlock, but the other cup and the rest of the toast on his desk, sat down and faced Sherlock. “Lestrade took my gun. I would have succeeded if he hadn’t meddled in things he shouldn't have.” Sherlock felt the room spin and his knees grow weak. He tried closing his eyes but that made everything worse. The only thing he could see was John putting his gun in his mouth, his

<|output|> <|example|> that Sherlock being in love with John meant that they couldn’t be friends or colleagues. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John was quiet <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> The only thing he could see was John putting his gun in his mouth, his <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> John stood motionless, this conversation was rapidly spinning out of any sort of control <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> John had started to pack up his things with nervous glances towards the door <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> head exploding, Johns blood on the walls. He felt nauseated. John stood motionless for a while, wanting to make sure he was well gone before he fell into his chair and drew a sigh of relief. He drew his laptop closer to the edge of the desk. He thought he just as well google Mycroft Holmes to see if there was any weight in his threats. Several minutes of frustrating searches didn’t prove much. The older Mr Holmes wasn’t on any social media. The only things John could find was passing mentions in different papers. He seemed to be working for the government, but not in a very high position. That didn’t calm John, maybe he had connections higher up? He was interrupted by another knock in the door. This time it was the younger of the Holmes brothers. - The late Mr Bryce, Mr Bryce and Mrs Gordon’s father, used our bank for most of his affairs. More specifically, he held a safe deposit box for his stamp collection. Mr Jackson was interrupted by Mr Bryce. - So you’re saying you wanted me to kiss you but it wasn’t because of any romantic feelings towards me, it was my looks? - we told everyone that you are friends of ours and that you are romantically involved. We can’t tell anyone the truth and it’s politically correct these days to have gay friends you know. Sherlock pressed his lips together to a thin line but he didn’t say anything. John wasn’t sure what bothered him the most, the woman’s statement that was far from politically correct or the fact that he was going to spend the night pretending to be in love with Sherlock Holmes. - Well it has to have been someone close to father. And we have invited all of our family and father's old associates. Mrs Gordon kept quit so John assumed she agreed. - I think I need to be alone for a while now. He said and John nodded. He could understand that. Felt a bit relieved that Sherlock had made the move. I think I like this bit best, Sherlock said waking John from his thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked into Sherlock’s eyes that were so close he had difficulty focusing. But really John, you should have told me how good looking he is. So I was prepared. It would not have been easy saying no if I had wanted to when he looked at me with those eyes. Or you maybe didn’t notice? John opened his mouth to answer but the only thing that came out was laughter. Sherlock’s eyes, his whole presence followed him in his dreams. Not noticing was so far of the mark it was hilarious. You mean cuddling? He asked gingerly. Sherlock dragged himself to a sitting position. His shirt was a bit creased and his hair was messy but he didn’t seem to mind. He just pulled his finger through his hair, moving it away from his eyes. - Do you have any news for us? Mrs Gordon asked. John glanced at Sherlock but it seemed like he

<|output|> <|example|> head exploding, Johns blood on the walls. He felt nauseated. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Several minutes of frustrating searches didn’t prove much <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> hadn’t heard. - Are you sure there has been a theft? Could your father not just have sold whatever it is that is missing? Sherlock sounded bored. He was leaning back, arms folded over his chest. Mr Bryce blushed “Just SHUT UP!” John screamed straightening up. Sherlock kept silent. John met his eyes, seemingly searching for something. Mrs Bryce welcomed John and Sherlock when they arrived at the party. She was dressed in a purple dress that looked expensive and had a diamond necklace round her neck. “Oh, I thought. Of course Sherlock, of course I want you. Any way but bloody.” he winked and left Sherlock alone with his throbbing heart and pink cheeks. He unbuttoned his shirt, wanting this interlude to last as short as possible. He hadn’t had time to move before John came back. He paused in the doorway, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s naked chest. Sherlock blushed as he could read John’s thoughts clear as day. It made heat build in his stomach again. John cleared his throat but his voice was still a bit lower than usual when he spoke. John didn’t know why he was so angry with Sherlock but he was. He was more than angry, he was infuriating. What kind of game was he playing? John wanted no part of it. He felt like he had been tested and he didn’t know if he had passed the test or failed miserably. Sherlock was his normal self (as normal as he could be when faking to be John's boyfriend), but he called for a cab quit early on to Johns relief. Why are you here? He asked. It seemed like Sherlock didn’t expect that question. Maybe his flirting didn’t go as well as he had thought. You wanted to see me, Mr Holmes said, leaning against the doorframe. For a second, John let himself think about how good he looked in the light shining in from the window. Then he pushed the thought aside and focused on his role as a teacher. - If you don’t have any experience in dating, does that mean you don’t have much experience in...? You know... Sherlock looked at John with a look of humour. Do you want to know what I feel or do you want me to just forget about it? Sherlock met John’s gaze but didn’t speak. They stood so for what seemed like ages for John. - I need a shower, he said. He walked to the bathroom and opened the door. He stopped and turned to John. - Oh no, thats Janice, Janice Williams. She is a childhood friend but she could just aswell be my sister. Our parents were friends so we grew up together. We had so much fun. She was the only one who had the patience to listen to my father’s ramblings about his stamps. Sherlock put the photo back on the mantelpiece then strode out of the room. “Sherlock” John said. He wasn’t shouting any more, instead he sounded concerned. Sherlock looked at him, though he had a hard time focusing. John took Sherlock’s vrist in his hand

<|output|> <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Maybe his flirting didn’t go as well as he had thought <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> and checked his pulse. He shuddered as he did it. “YOU DIED YOU PRICK!” John bellowed back. Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his face, he smelled of alcohol. Sherlock showed John back. Hard enough to make him stagger back. - Do you know how hard this has been on me? Being your little experiment so you can find out if you like me or not? John felt a pang of guilt, it was true he was using Sherlock as a labrat. “You have” Sherlock’s voice was low but steady, not a tremble could be heard. His insides on the other hand were trembling. He had to concentrate on standing up, his legs wanted to buckle. He stood perfectly still, breathing calmly, not showing any outward sign of nervousness. “So you’re saying you have been in love? That someone rejected you and broke your heart?” John sneered. -Yes. Sherlock said, not missing a beat. John felt like he had gotten a bucket of ice thrown at him. The safe feeling he had a moment ago was gone. Dr Watson. He walked in before John, stopping at the middle of the floor. As soon John had closed the door Sherlock pressed him against it, seeking his mouth with his own. John’s whole body went rigid with panic. He had to get away, protect himself. He didn’t know where he was just that he was under attack and needed to defend himself. Distantly he could hear someone calling him. Someone called him John. That was odd, everyone in the military called him captain or Watson, never John. That detail made him come back to reality. He had Sherlock backed against the bookcase, his arm over Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock was pleading with him, his voice was low due to the pressure John was putting on his throat.John quickly released Sherlock, stepping away in horror. Sherlock was gulping in air, clutching his throat. He met John’s eyes. His eyes were full of surprise and a bit of fear. John was horrified. He had never hurt anyone else during his flashbacks. His back hitting the opposite wall and he slid down it, his legs trembling to much for him to stand. He could see how Sherlock straightened up, arranging his face so he looked calm and a bit concerned, the fear gone. “Just… “ he said as John had turned around heading to the bathroom and the first aid-kit Sherlock assumed he had there. John turned around, his eyes widening as he saw Sherlock’s face. No I don’t. Sentiment is unimportant. Can we just focus on why you shouldn't kick me out of your course. "You seem like a man of average intelligence, what do you think?" Mr Holmes spoke with the same even voice he had done since he came. He could just as well be speaking about the weather. “For what?” John actually met Sherlock’s eyes then. He looked surprised in the middle of all the hurt, grief and anger. Yes I’m in love with you, but let's focus on what's important now. Sherlock kept on talking, about why he had stolen those body

<|output|> <|example|> and checked his pulse. He shuddered as he did it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He could just as well be speaking about the weather <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> That detail made him come back to reality <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Dr Watson <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> “For what?” John actually met Sherlock’s eyes then <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> parts. John didn’t listen, he just looked at Sherlock. How could he just say something like that and then just keep on talking about else. “Will you let me look at your back now?” Sherlock nodded. He felt a bit deflated, he had poured his heart out and John hadn’t answered. “In short yes.” Sherlock waited as John composed himself. Soon he could feel something wet pressing against his back. He hissed as it stinged in his opened wounds. * John’s head swam from all the emotions. He was angry at Sherlock, he wanted to push him out of his office and lock the door. The man was insufferable. Another part of him wanted to lean in and kiss him senseless. Without thought, he stood up and walked round his desk to stand in front of Sherlock who straightened up. He was right about the hight, he was a lot taller than John. But he was lean, to John it looked like he could break him like a twig. He intended to drag Sherlock out of his room. Showing with actions what he was trying to say and Sherlock wouldn’t listen to. He grabbed Sherlock by the arm, harder than he had to and started to pull him towards the door. Instead of following John’s tug at his arm, Sherlock leaned in. He placed a kiss on John’s lips, careful not to touch him in any other way. John’s anger mingled with his desire that flared up at that simple touch. He forgot everything about wanting to get Sherlock out of the office, or Sherlock’s inexperience. He showed Sherlock against the desk, stepping so close that Sherlock had to sit down on the desk as not to fall over. John grabbed Sherlock by the neck, deepening the kiss. This was ruffer than any kiss they shared before. Their teeth scraped against each other as John tried to get even closer, taste even more of Sherlock. He could hear Sherlock moan, his hands on John’s shoulders, hugging tight. John’s hand that wasn’t wrapped up in Sherlock’s hair was trying to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt. He got the two top buttons opened and placed his hand on Sherlock’s naked chest. Sherlock gasped, his hands pushing John away. He came to his senses. Embarrassed and frightened of the strength of his emotions. He was breathing hard. You made me think you wanted to date me, you fooled me into giving you my keycard, you stole from the university, this is a serious matter. I could have you expelled. John left out the bit about Mycroft’s threat. He wanted to make Sherlock understand the seriousness of the matter, he seemed to enjoy himself way too much at the moment. It seemed to work, the smile on Sherlock’s lips faltered. You’ve seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths. Sherlock walked slowly towards John. He still couldn’t figure out what Sherlock was up to, he knew all this. “Then what?” John took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s… I… Sherlock stammered, seemingly struggling for words.

<|output|> <|example|> parts. John didn’t listen, he just looked at Sherlock. How could he just say something like that and then just keep on talking about else. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> John’s hand that wasn’t wrapped up in Sherlock’s hair was trying to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> It’s… I… Sherlock stammered, seemingly struggling for words <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> You made me think you wanted to date me, you fooled me into giving you my keycard, you stole from the university, this is a serious matter <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> He felt a bit deflated, he had poured his heart out and John hadn’t answered <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. - Sentiment, he said. Almost spitting out the word. John raised his eyebrows in a question. Sherlock took a deep breath then continued in a voice void of almost all emotion. - just bloody do as I ask for once and just forget about it! he shouted. Sherlock looked surprised, he hadn’t realised how upset John was. It gave John a hint of satisfaction. It wasn’t often he could surprise Sherlock. “I didn’t say I haven’t kissed anyone before, I just said I hadn’t enjoyed it before” Sherlock knew he was focusing on the wrong details. But his mind was flooded with images of him and John naked doing a whole lot of things he never thought he would even remotely like. “Don’t play stupid Sherlock it doesn’t suit you” Sherlock straightened up, preparing for a new fight. It threw John of, the only other time he had seen that look on someone's face was the girls that had had a crush on him when he was a soldier. - It’s not money that’s holding them back, the brother has money. You saw his cufflinks? They were new, you don’t buy anything like that if you’re low on funds. Sherlock gave John that look that said “You knew that”. It usually just rubbed John the wrong way but tonight he had to close his fists since the urge to punch Sherlock was strong. You’re miserable, said Sherlock in a matter of fact voice. John continued to look at him, trying to see any hint of emotion. Do you want something to eat? Thai? Italian? Indian? He walked from the kitchen carrying a bunch of take away menyes. John laughed. I do, but… Sherlock broke of, running his fingers through his hair. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. - I asked your assistant to send me all the records and surveillance concerning this case. I’m hoping he has started? Sherlock rose from his seat. The others looked surprised at him as he strode out of the room. John rose slowly and smiled at their stunned faces. You don’t listen when I say that I don’t want to see you anymore, you came here, he indicated the room with his hand. When John came down from his bedroom newly dressed and heading for the kitchen and the kettle, he saw Sherlock standing at the door. He sighed, knowing that tea and the newspaper had to wait. Instead he headed for the door, following Sherlock out to the street and into a cab. “What?” The question came as such a surprise to Sherlock that he smiled. Anger flared in John's eyes so he quickly sombered his face. He looked around in the small kitchen, there was only room for a small table and two chairs. If he took two large steps he would be right infront of John. - I was dealing with it and I was doing fine. John felt dumbstruck. Both by Sherlock’s words and his anger, Sherlock rarely showed anger. The cab dropped them off at an apartment building

<|output|> <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It threw John of, the only other time he had seen that look on someone's face was the girls that had had a crush on him when he was a soldier <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> When John came down from his bedroom newly dressed and heading for the kitchen and the kettle, he saw Sherlock standing at the door <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> I’m hoping he has started? Sherlock rose from his seat <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 <|example|> John rose slowly and smiled at their stunned faces <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> It usually just rubbed John the wrong way but tonight he had to close his fists since the urge to punch Sherlock was strong <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> - Sentiment, he said <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> The others looked surprised at him as he strode out of the room <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> after a drive that took them almost through the whole city. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and was ringing a doorbell before John had paid the fare. He only heard the last of what Sherlock was saying. Yet here you are, John looked at Sherlock thinking. He was beautiful, there was no other word for it. He was bright and scary observant, and he seemed to have the emotional capacity of a five year old. So what’s your problem then? John explained how Sherlock had made his feelings clear and at the same time saying that they didn’t matter. And then how he continued to flirt with John but made no other move. Molly listen and asked questions. And when lunch was over John felt a little bit more at ease with himself. It made it easier to smile at Sherlock who was standing outside John’s office fiddling with his phone. Oh hi, you must be Sherlock’s friend. He said that someone would come. She stepped back and let him in. - He said he had written a new will when he gave me this stamp. That the one thing left was to tell his other children, but he kept putting that off. When he died I waited to be called to the reading of the will but that didn’t happened. I don’t know what to believe. “Are you alright? Breath Sherlock” John said quietly, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock took a breath, that was the only thing he could do. He couldn’t answer John’s question, he couldn’t form a single thought. He didn’t think his brain had ever been so empty. Not even on his best highs. John seemed to take Sherlock breathing as an answer because he closed the last gap between them and kissed him. It was nothing like Sherlock had imagined. He could never have imagined something that made him calm and exhilarated at the same time. The world around him seemed to shrink until it only contained him and John. Too soon John leaned back, sitting back down in his chair. He met Sherlock’s eyes and smiled. Yes, enough for a lifetime, far too much. John’s throat actually thickened up, when he spoke. Memories came flooding back to him. - Well no, but this is not an ordinary first date. And yes, I’m wondering if you have had sex. Sherlock smiled a bit, looking forward. on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. "you weren't exactly popular?" john inquired further, not acknowledging sherlock's comment. "he told me people didn't really like you," he proceeded, carefully watching sherlock's face for any

<|output|> <|example|> after a drive that took them almost through the whole city. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and was ringing a doorbell before John had paid the fare. He only heard the last of what Sherlock was saying. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> Oh hi, you must be Sherlock’s friend <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> - Well no, but this is not an ordinary first date <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “Are you alright? Breath Sherlock” John said quietly, meeting Sherlock's eyes <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> The world around him seemed to shrink until it only contained him and John <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> hint of reaction. putting his cup down next to john's, sherlock leaned against the man next to him. wrapping one arm around the lanky detective, john fished for the remote with the other and turned the volume of the movie back up. "they bullied you, sherlock, quite badly from what i heard," john finally exclaimed, a little exasperated by the lack of explanation from sherlock's side. though he hadn't expected the other to immediately talk about all the bad things during his time at school, his constant dismissal wore his patience thin. but only because he was concerned and wanted to hear sherlock's side of things. "university, yes," sebastian replied and leaned back in his leather chair with his usual suave grin. "oh, the stories i could tell. everyone hated him back then, you know," he spoke as if he was thinking of various memories to back up the claim at the same time. it was an awkward silence that hung in the air of the office, the silence of two people who neither knew each other very well nor had anything to discuss. john supposed that he ought to get used to this sooner rather than later, this,  meaning sherlock's habit to run off on impromptu investigations through the entire building and leaving him alone with the investment banker they had once again been consulted by. the same bank that they had been at years ago already to investigate a murder now just so happened to have another one on their plate. dangerous lives these bankers had these days. john realized he had started digging his nails into his thigh with an uncomfortable force while listening and swallowed the harsh words threatening to escape his mouth. the reaction didn't come and sherlock only shrugged, eyes still trained on the tv. "does it surprise you. most people don't like me, why would it have been different back then," he said. "looks like we're just in time to watch the exciting part," john commented and settled back into the couch, pulling sherlock closer as he did. john seemed surprised, confused even, his voice told him that. "what did who tell me now?" he asked, grabbing the remote to turn down the volume of the tv. john involuntarily stiffened at that statement, suddenly realizing he didn't feel quite comfortable knowing that. ever since sherlock and him had grown closer he felt a weird sense of protectiveness for the detective, a feeling that perhaps stemmed from sherlock's tendency to not only disregard his own health in favour of cases but also jump head-first into danger during these cases. though he always claimed to have a plan, john allowed himself to doubt that. "yes, yes, you mentioned that," he replied and nodded. "because he deduced things about you and the others, right?" john swallowed and put his cup down on the coffee table. "just because you are different doesn't give them the right to bully you," he spoke more softly this time. "he also mentioned that you were suddenly gone from school, and that there were rumours that you had, suicidal intentions," he said, deciding to

<|output|> <|example|> hint of reaction. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> but only because he was concerned and wanted to hear sherlock's side of things <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> putting his cup down next to john's, sherlock leaned against the man next to him <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> john seemed surprised, confused even, his voice told him that <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> putting his cup down next to john's, sherlock leaned against the man next to him <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> go all in now that they were already talking. if the topic drifted off, he doubted he'd be able to properly discuss it again anytime soon. the flat was empty when john set foot into it and he sighed, shrugging off his jacket and leaving it on the coat rack by the door. routinely as always he made tea, making a second cup even though he knew it was unlikely sherlock would arrive in time to be able to drink it while it was still warm. "alright, alright, sherlock stop," john interrupted him and sherlock closed his mouth, deflating a little bit. "i was only trying to tease you," he explained. sherlock's grip on his cup tightened the tiniest bit and he finally turned his head to look at john. "does that surprise you?" he repeated his question from before, his eyebrows knitting together in an expression that was both questioning and confused. "i am different, john, people don't like people who aren't like them," he said as if it was the most simple thing in the world. he didn't quite understand what john didn't understand about the story. "Are you going home?" Mr Holmes asked as John put his card back in his wallet. He nodded his answer. They started texting several times each day. John would be in class, feel his phone buzz and smile out of the blue. Molly commented on John’s change in mood, he couldn’t be bothered to hide it. Sherlock seemed to be busy, he only showed up in John’s lectures at the last minute and disappeared as soon as John finished. He texted John about his case, about a policeofficer he seemed to like but still irritated him, or just random observations. In between came texts were Sherlock would tell John that he missed him or things he wanted to do to John.Those texts usually came at night to John’s relief. Some things Sherlock said made him so aroused he had to wank to relieve the pressure. He had asked Sherlock when they could meet but only got “after the case” as response. Then one day when John was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to be alone with Sherlock again, a text that just said “221B Bakerstreet, 6 o’clock”. It made John’s heart skip a beat and he spent too much time picking out clothes. He wanted to look nice but he was unsure what he was going to. Was it a date? Were they staying at baker street? He took a cab, arriving ten minutes early. An older woman opened the door. And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop. Compared to other things that Holmes handles in the Granada series–test tubes, magnifying glasses, syringes, fireplace pokers, revolvers–paper has the virtue of extending and amplifying the actor’s gestures. The arc a sheet of newsprint describes as it travels through the air is bigger than the arc the hand holding it would describe alone. Paper, because it’s flexible and strong but delicate, quivers and dances and flutters like an extension of Holmes’s own

<|output|> <|example|> go all in now that they were already talking. if the topic drifted off, he doubted he'd be able to properly discuss it again anytime soon. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "Are you going home?" Mr Holmes asked as John put his card back in his wallet. He nodded his answer. <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop. Compared to other things that Holmes handles in the Granada series–test tubes, magnifying glasses, syringes, fireplace pokers, revolvers–paper has the virtue of extending and amplifying the actor’s gestures. The arc a sheet of newsprint describes as it travels through the air is bigger than the arc the hand holding it would describe alone. Paper, because it’s flexible and strong but delicate, quivers and dances and flutters like an extension of Holmes’s own <|indexes|> 2 |

<|output|> <|example|> if the topic drifted off, he doubted he'd be able to properly discuss it again anytime soon <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> the flat was empty when john set foot into it and he sighed, shrugging off his jacket and leaving it on the coat rack by the door <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> He wanted to look nice but he was unsure what he was going to <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> body and spirit. Through paper, Brett’s Holmes expands to fill the space around him, becoming an elemental force, whipping up a tornado and then making it rain. This is something Brett had obviously learned before playing Holmes; but never was this put to use more effectively than in the Granada Series. Holmes's hands traveled slowly, solemnly, through the air. I felt his hands against my temples, cool and burning somehow at the same time. His exalted gaze met my own. He drew my crowned head toward his own. How is any of this necessary? How is it excusable? The story doesn’t call for it; it’s completely inconsistent with the way Brett’s Holmes has so far treated the other women he’s interacted with on screen. It’s all of a piece with the gratuitous action and the killing of Latimer; and I just wonder why anyone thought they needed it. Had Marlowe read the canon stories? Had he seen any of the earlier episodes? Was he just so committed to Chandleresque atmosphere that he decided to give Holmes Philip Marlowe’s disgust for femmes fatales and really dames of all kinds? I don’t know. All I know is, that whole train sequence was a mistake and it shouldn’t have been made. One can only imagine Brett, who appears to have appointed himself guardian of the canon, reading the script and just facepalming when he got to that part. I have to SAY this shit? For real? This is the very last episode aired of Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock Holmes. In a lot of ways, it was better than I was expecting. In general, I’ll be honest, ever since The Last Vampyre this rewatch has been kind of a masochistic exercise. “The Cardboard Box” is definitely not one of Granada’s better episodes. But as show finales go…well, I’m anX-Files fan, so for me the bar is not high. There are worse notes on which this show could have gone out. And after the vast disappointments of “Mazarin Stone,” it’s nice to have Brett back–even not at full capacity–so that you can say a proper goodbye. And once they’re out and about, well, Watson’s sad about leaving the beer behind and he bitches about the cold, but this is absolutely the best way either of them could have thought up to spend Christmas eve and Brett and Burke find a million ways of letting us know that. Watson joining in with Holmes on the “bet” to get the information out of Breckenridge is delightful; he almost drops the ball, but then he just sails on into the con with such confidence and zest it makes your heart grow a size just to watch him. Anyway, so, there are three reasons why “The Musgrave Ritual” has always been one of my least favorite stories. One: no Watson. “The Musgrave Ritual” is an old case, from the beginning of Holmes’s career, which survives amongst his records as a peg with a string on it and a few old coins. Holmes tells Watson the story to get out of cleaning up their sitting room. Two: more telling than

<|output|> <|example|> body and spirit. Through paper, Brett’s Holmes expands to fill the space around him, becoming an elemental force, whipping up a tornado and then making it rain. This is something Brett had obviously learned before playing Holmes; but never was this put to use more effectively than in the Granada Series. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It’s all of a piece with the gratuitous action and the killing of Latimer; and I just wonder why anyone thought they needed it <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Two: more telling than <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> In a lot of ways, it was better than I was expecting <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Had Marlowe read the canon stories? Had he seen any of the earlier episodes? Was he just so committed to Chandleresque atmosphere that he decided to give Holmes Philip Marlowe’s disgust for femmes fatales and really dames of all kinds? I don’t know <|indexes|> 3 |

<|text|> showing. All of the most interesting things in this case have already happened before Musgrave shows up in London to consult Holmes. And three: I’m American. When I was 12, I had no idea who the fuck Charles I was, or what a cavalier was. I eventually learned, of course; but even then, I couldn’t really Holmes/Watson episode, but Bowen seems to like to give Watson some extras; in this adaptation, he and Holmes figure it out about the “cow” horseshoes just about simultaneously, and Watson is given the job of shadowing Wilder and the boy while Holmes bikes over to Holdernesse Hall to confront the Duke one last time. He also has Watson reconstruct Heidegger’s movements, at Holmes’s direction, for Dr. Huxtable’s benefit. Not sure how I feel about that device; it feels a little Agatha Christie to me. But I do like the joke about Heidegger “fortifying himself for the task ahead,” which you think will be kidnapping but turns out to be grading. Well, maybe it mattered more to Bowen that Wilder dies for his crimes; maybe, like many another modern reader, he finds crimes against children more horrifying and less forgivable than crimes against adults, even when the crime against the child is objectively less severe. Holmes sends Watson off to follow Wilder and Arthur by saying, “You are now that boy’s guardian angel.” Watson is not great at being a guardian angel, but evidently it was important to Bowen that the grown-ups not just This is from the final moments of “The Golden Pince-Nez,” during which Holmes is reading a letter sent to him by Mycroft. Soon, he will be reduced to literally talking to himself, as he answers for the viewer–and for nobody else–Mycroft’s question about why Anna committed suicide. “Past hope and in despair,” he says; “and then…the death of love.” Would have been an appropriate ending for this melancholy episode. Even if you didn’t know about any of the behind the scenes tragedy, this episode would still convey the autumnal scent of decay, of something–as Hamm says–taking its course. Alas, the episode actually *ends* with something far more ridiculous which only proves that no matter how often they try it, the Granada team (rather ironically) still can’t get “leaping from a great height” right. (Every time. Every time it’s a disaster. “Priory School,” “Last Vampyre,” and now this. They got it right once in “Final Problem” and that was by shooting from Very Far Away.) My only theory about this, as far as Doyle is concerned, is that Doyle initially intended for Holmes to give it back to the Countess because he was thinking of this as a straightforward robbery plot…but then at the end of the story, as the questions of guilt and responsibility come into focus, , moving on.) Or the story where we learn that basically Mycroft is the British government’s Secret Human Google? Or the one where Holmes impulsively grabs Watson’s hand and says, “I knew you would not shrink at the last!” while showing more “tenderness” for him than Watson’s ever seen? Why did this story not become a Young Plaidder favorite? , to be specific.

<|output|> <|example|> showing. All of the most interesting things in this case have already happened before Musgrave shows up in London to consult Holmes. And three: I’m American. When I was 12, I had no idea who the fuck Charles I was, or what a cavalier was. I eventually learned, of course; but even then, I couldn’t really <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Huxtable’s benefit <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> He also has Watson reconstruct Heidegger’s movements, at Holmes’s direction, for Dr <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> I eventually learned, of course; but even then, I couldn’t really Holmes/Watson episode, but Bowen seems to like to give Watson some extras; in this adaptation, he and Holmes figure it out about the “cow” horseshoes just about simultaneously, and Watson is given the job of shadowing Wilder and the boy while Holmes bikes over to Holdernesse Hall to confront the Duke one last time <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> Early on, Holmes drops a snarky comment about Watson’s limited medical skills, and Mrs. Hudson says, “You only say that because you miss the doctor.” You can see immediately from his reaction that she has HIS number. Yes, Holmes misses the doctor and I miss him too. And this is another of those somewhat spooky ways in which Brett’s illness forces the Granada series to correspond with the canon arc–in which, toward the end of the saga, Watson starts to drop out of the picture. I’m afraid that for me this exception proves the rules–the Norwood Builder Rules, to be specific. Early on, Holmes drops a snarky comment about Watson’s limited medical skills, and Mrs. Hudson says, “You only say that because you miss the doctor.” You can see immediately from his reaction that she has HIS number. Yes, Holmes misses the doctor and I miss him too. And this is another of those somewhat spooky ways in which Brett’s illness forces the Granada series to correspond with the canon arc–in which, toward the end of the saga, Watson starts to drop out of the picture. What else is there to say? They would not have made this episode the way they did if they’d had any other choice. But I do find the “third eye” thing very unsettling. It’s a very strange way of compensating for his physical deterioration. I mean I know Holmes is the greatest reasoner who ever lived; but do we actually have to give him mystical omniscience? Could we just not let him stay a human, increasingly broken as he appears to be? I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that Watson can’t actually see the snake when it finally shows up. But I don’t have time to get into what that might mean. On to the next one! . Nevertheless, because I named myself after a snake, I eventually came to take an interest in them; plus, I lived near a friend for a while who was a serious snake nut and had filled her house with boas and pythons. So, although I am not the first to point this out by any means, I can confirm from experience that Doyle knew fuck-all about how snakes work. Let me just list the Major Errors Of The Speckled Band: This adaptation thus provides even more confirmation of my Everything’s Better With More Watson theory. Watson is incorporated into the investigation in reasonably logical ways; but more to the point, we get to see Holmes and Watson on holiday, and it’s pretty funny. Holmes, who has a cold or maybe just hates fresh air, spends the first part of the episode swathed in shawls, flinging them about his shoulders as if they were Norma Desmond’s fox furs. I don’t know if the cold is supposed to be another symptom of addiction or what, but it definitely provides occasion for some entertaining acting choices. He’s petulantly uninterested in the Things You Do On A Visit To A Country House, sitting morosely on a bench (wrapped in God knows what) while Watson goes out to kill some

<|output|> <|example|> Early on, Holmes drops a snarky comment about Watson’s limited medical skills, and Mrs. Hudson says, “You only say that because you miss the doctor.” You can see immediately from his reaction that she has HIS number. Yes, Holmes misses the doctor and I miss him too. And this is another of those somewhat spooky ways in which Brett’s illness forces the Granada series to correspond with the canon arc–in which, toward the end of the saga, Watson starts to drop out of the picture. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Yes, Holmes misses the doctor and I miss him too <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> grouse. It’s nice to see him and Watson getting to relax a bit, before everything goes down. Regardless, it’s still a risk, and it’s still a huge responsibility. And that’s why I think the final scene, with Holmes lighting the confession on fire as he dispassionately talks about the case’s features of interest, means more in the adaptation than the conclusion of the canon story does. He’s openly destroying evidence–and thereby acknowledging to himself and Watson that the decision And then I realized: the Holmes/Watson stuff in this episode is what you might call roommate comedy. These are basically sitcom-level interactions based on an “odd couple” dynamic: two people who really shouldn’t get along, and bicker a lot for that reason, but at the end of the day really are friends. The only bit of it that rises above that level is the conversation at the barbershop at the beginning (and the two of them walking arm in arm back to the flat afterward). It’s sort of funny, but it doesn’t…I don’t know, it fails to convince me that it’s Holmes and Watson–this particular Holmes and Watson–and not some other odd couple. , Doyle doesn’t really present Holmes’s drug use as an addiction until pretty late in the saga (in the introduction to “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter,” to be precise). Most modern adaptations treat it as an addiction from the beginning, and that’s obviously what the Granada people have decided to do. In “Dancing Men,” during a late-night solo decoding session, Holmes takes out the syringe case, opens it, fondles it, then puts it back in the drawer and gets back to work. This falsifies his insistence in “Scandal” that he only uses when he’s not working. The difference between Watson’s histrionic reaction in “Scandal” and his angry but resigned reaction in “Solitary Cyclist” suggests that Watson has reached the point where he realizes he’s not going talk Holmes out of shooting up. turns his back on his intended mate, tempting the other bird forward by agitating an envelope’s open flap in place of the colorful tailfeathers this species regrettably lacks.” are cute and all, but they’re also evidence of a population of homeless and unsupervised children living on the street. In “Scandal in Bohemia,” nobody thinks it unusual at first that there are multiple grown men fighting each other for the chance to earn a tip by opening Irene Adler’s carriage door. In “The Crooked Man,” Nancy Barclay is doing charity work with the homeless and poor when she runs into Henry Baker. And so on. So when Holmes agrees, at least in my reading, he’s accepting not just the fact of death but the specific thing that Watson is telling him: that Holmes’s death is something that will happen to Watson too. And this is very important. Holmes came back in “Empty House” and made his confession and they made up; but Holmes didn’t really But the scene that’s really at the heart of “Dying Detective” is Watson’s first visit to Holmes’s bedside after his supposed infection. And quite unexpectedly, I thought it was the strongest scene he and Hardwicke had done together since “Illustrious Client.”

<|output|> <|example|> grouse. It’s nice to see him and Watson getting to relax a bit, before everything goes down. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> In “Dancing Men,” during a late-night solo decoding session, Holmes takes out the syringe case, opens it, fondles it, then puts it back in the drawer and gets back to work <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> So when Holmes agrees, at least in my reading, he’s accepting not just the fact of death but the specific thing that Watson is telling him: that Holmes’s death is something that will happen to Watson too <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> grouse <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> And then I realized. In the sickbed scenes, because Holmes is pretending to be sick, Brett didn’t have to pretend to be well. "What subject could require richer color, or more vibrant life, than the adventures of a unique and priceless jewel?" Now there is, to me, a very obvious reason that Doyle did this: he wanted Holmes to die in the Reichenbach Falls and he wanted Watson to be able to tell the story, and a holiday on the Continent was the fastest way he could think of to make that happen. Why the Reichenbach Falls? Well, you have to remember that the reason Doyle killed Holmes in the first place was that he wanted to be able to pursue his other writing, hopefully in more Literary and Prestigious directions. “The Final Problem” may have issues when it comes to plot, but Doyle was obviously concentrating primarily on providing Holmes with a grand exit worthy of his exalted status, and since the days of Byron and both Shelleys, for readers of English literature the Swiss alps had been the pinnacle, if you will, of the sublime. The Falls themselves are sufficiently dramatic, chaotic, and turbulent to be the resting place of someone who, as Holmes observes in “The Red Headed League,” spent his entire life trying to avoid stagnation and boredom. Watson’s description of the Falls reaches for a loftier tone than he usually aims for, and honestly I think contains ‘his’ best writing: "You may as well," I sighed, with a shrug. Holmes extracted the ball of paper and sat down at my desk. I returned to the day's old news, feigning indifference. I heard him gently smooth out each crumpled page with his fingertips, then turn it over and reach for the next. There are numerous nifty moments in “The Red Headed League,” but the mature me has a better appreciation for this one now than I did in my youth: The sounds they hear best, it turns out, are at the low end of the spectrum. So the whistle is also bullshit. So here’s to you, Kitty Winter, and good luck with the spinoff. I will miss your fiery red hair and your even more fiery spirit and of course your beautiful side-eye game: There are only two things that Marlowe and/or the director seem to have been really interested in this episode. One is the opening scene showing Sutton’s nightmare about death, and the other is the almost-silent scene in which Holmes goes over the crime scene collecting evidence. As for the first of these…well, it’s different. Cheesy and very 80s…but different. The second one is legitimately compelling and a good showcase for Brett’s abilities (although not necessarily for the cinematographer’s). But it’s really not enough to sustain an hour of television. also goes back to the 1857 mutiny, which is when the Agra treasure comes into the hands of Small and his three allies–all of whom may be thieves and murderers, but are at least loyal to the British Army and the fort they’re protecting. Doyle would eventually be knighted for the work he did

<|output|> <|example|> And then I realized. In the sickbed scenes, because Holmes is pretending to be sick, Brett didn’t have to pretend to be well. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The second one is legitimately compelling and a good showcase for Brett’s abilities (although not necessarily for the cinematographer’s) <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Holmes extracted the ball of paper and sat down at my desk <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> The second one is legitimately compelling and a good showcase for Brett’s abilities (although not necessarily for the cinematographer’s) <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> I will miss your fiery red hair and your even more fiery spirit and of course your beautiful side-eye game: There are only two things that Marlowe and/or the director seem to have been really interested in this episode <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Holmes extracted the ball of paper and sat down at my desk <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> trying to justify Britain’s indefensible conduct of the Boer War. So in “The Crooked Man,” the ‘scandal’ isn’t just Barclay’s personal treachery–the story summed up in Mrs. Barclay’s allusions to the biblical “David”–but British responsibility for the mutiny (since Barclay becomes, at the moment he sets Wood up for this, a mutineer himself). And this is interesting in a kind of intellectual way, but I can’t really vibe.  Accordingly, in the Granada narrative, “Norwood Builder” takes place three episodes before “The Final Problem” (we have “Resident Patient” and “The Red-Headed League” coming up first). And thanks to some great work from the screenwriter and from Brett and Burke, this becomes, not just an interesting case, but a beautiful moment in the development of Holmes and Watson’s relationship. This episode begins with Holmes sitting grumpily in the carriage, swathed in a truly amazing array of wraps, telling Watson darkly, “You should have traveled alone,” to which a pained Watson responds, with false cheerfulness, “Nonsense! We’re on holiday!” The episode ends with one of many reversals, as Holmes waves away Watson’s concerns about his decision to let Sterndale go by repeating his own line back to him: “And besides, as you’re always telling me, we’re on holiday!” In between, Holmes undergoes a serious transformation which leads to a seismic shift in their relationship. And it all starts with that scene at the neolithic tomb, when Watson says, “I suppose death is always with us.” Hawkesworth’s adaptation is, for me, a mixed bag. I think the smartest decision he made was to involve Watson more formally in the case. Having completed the apprenticeship narrative that runs from “Dancing Men” to “Final Problem,” Watson is now investigating things on his own, and has signed up to be a “police surgeon;” Lestrade apparently works with him from time to time, and calls him in to the Adair crime scene. This gives us a chance to find out a little more about Watson’s life without Holmes, and to introduce us to Hardwicke. The scene in which Watson gives evidence at the inquest is a great idea from that point of view. We see how, after producing Holmes’s celebrity, poor Watson himself has been forgotten, reduced to a nondescript man giving evidence to a testy coroner who won’t let him use his carefully honed deductive faculties and can’t even remember his name. Hardwicke seems very depressed by this interaction, and in general the mutedness of his performance fits very well with one’s idea of a Watson without Holmes. He’s doing his duty, getting through the day, still taking an interest in crime, but not really enjoying the full and exciting life he had with Holmes. The rest of the inquest, however, is very slow, very boring, and very full of unconvincing performances by bit players. But it’s the Extra Watson that saves this episode in the home stretch. In that scene in the cell, we see Holmes actually listening to Watson’s theory without condescension or sarcasm; he really does consider him his colleague at this point, and is willing to believe that Watson might be able to solve a problem that baffles him. And even

<|output|> <|example|> trying to justify Britain’s indefensible conduct of the Boer War. So in “The Crooked Man,” the ‘scandal’ isn’t just Barclay’s personal treachery–the story summed up in Mrs. Barclay’s allusions to the biblical “David”–but British responsibility for the mutiny (since Barclay becomes, at the moment he sets Wood up for this, a mutineer himself). And this is interesting in a kind of intellectual way, but I can’t really <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> In that scene in the cell, we see Holmes actually listening to Watson’s theory without condescension or sarcasm; he really does consider him his colleague at this point, and is willing to believe that Watson might be able to solve a problem that baffles him <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Having completed the apprenticeship narrative that runs from “Dancing Men” to “Final Problem,” Watson is now investigating things on his own, and has signed up to be a “police surgeon;” Lestrade apparently works with him from time to time, and calls him in to the Adair crime scene <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> The scene in which Watson gives evidence at the inquest is a great idea from that point of view <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> though Watson’s theory is wrong, and Holmes knows immediately that it’s wrong, he recognizes the one thing Watson’s demonstrating here that he’s been lacking: imagination. Watson’s identification of the killer makes no sense (why, if Gibson killed his wife to frame Dunbar, would he then ruin a plan that was going extremely well by calling in Sherlock Holmes to save the woman he framed?); but by changing this from a story about the murder of Maria Gibson into a story about the framing of Grace Dunbar, he’s shown Holmes the way to the real solution. What you see from Brett as Holmes recognizes that is new, and it’s complicated. In his “Watson, you put me to shame!” you can feel both admiration and anger. All along he’s wanted Watson to reach this level; but Holmes still wants to be the one in charge. Maybe that’s why he dumps Watson’s revolver in the pond. (Hardwicke’s reactions throughout that whole scene are priceless.) -style with actual torches chasing Wilder and Arthur into the depths of a system of caves, until Wilder, during the final standoff, falls to his death. It’s late, this week is still terrible, and I’ve got some time to consider a question that has been much on my mind of late: why is it that I love watching Jeremy Brett handle paper? I’m taking it up now partly because it was always my intention, after finishing the rewatch, to write up a post about why Jeremy Brett was the definitive 20th century Sherlock Holmes. But every time I start such a post, I think, oh what’s the point, it’s all already been said, by myself even, and anyway there’s too much. I’ve formulated a hypothesis, though, which is that if I can explain why Brett’s interaction with paper is so important to my enjoyment of this show, I will probably in the process be demonstrating what it was that made his Sherlock Holmes so unique and indelible. So follow me, friends, while I unfold my crackpot theories about the romance of the material text and how it binds us to the Master Paper-Handler. This episode, for me, is about more than the case. Everyone’s all “Three Garridebs” this and “Three Garridebs” that; but in canon, IMHO, “Devil’s Foot” is just as big a milestone in Holmes and Watson’s relationship. The adaptation emphasizes and expands that into something which–for me, anyway–becomes profound and moving. In the context of the Granada series, “Devil’s Foot” is a kind of emotional sequel to “Empty House,” in which the Reichenbach trauma is–surreptitiously and subterraneously–reopened, worked through, and healed. Mercifully, this episode is largely unconcerned with radix pedis diaboli’s central African origins; we do hear the occasional bit of drumming in the soundtrack, but we don’t have to submit to anything like the festival of stereotypes that opens “Six Napoleons.” The lethal horror induced by the drug is instead referred back to the one fear that drives all others–death–and its close companion, loss. As Watson’s voice goes on, the camera lingers on all the things Holmes has left behind, never (as far

<|output|> <|example|> though Watson’s theory is wrong, and Holmes knows immediately that it’s wrong, he recognizes the one thing Watson’s demonstrating here that he’s been lacking: imagination. Watson’s identification of the killer makes no sense (why, if Gibson killed his wife to frame Dunbar, would he then ruin a plan that was going extremely well by calling in Sherlock Holmes to save the woman he framed?); but by changing this from a story about the murder of Maria Gibson into a story about the framing of Grace Dunbar, he’s shown Holmes the way to the real solution. What you see from Brett as Holmes recognizes that is new, and it’s complicated. In his “Watson, you put me to shame!” you can feel both admiration and anger. All along he’s wanted Watson to reach this level; but Holmes still wants to be the one in charge. Maybe that’s why he dumps Watson’s revolver in the pond. (Hardwicke’s reactions throughout that whole scene are priceless.) <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Everyone’s all “Three Garridebs” this and “Three Garridebs” that; but in canon, IMHO, “Devil’s Foot” is just as big a milestone in Holmes and Watson’s relationship <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> as Watson knows) to pick up again. The pipe and slippers, the cigarette case, the revolver, etc. The very last image focused on, right after the “best and wisest man” line, is the empty syringe, seen through the iconic magnifying glass. Anyway, I admit I could be making all of this up, so on to other topics. Annie Harrison is one of the many remarkable women of canon in whom Moffat and Gatiss took no interest whatsoever; Holmes tells Percy straight up that without her they wouldn’t have recovered the treaty. The guest stars are all pretty good, and the shots of everyone outside in the summer sunlight are beautiful (thank you costume department for getting them out of their heavy tweeds for once). The final sequence showing Holmes’s fight with Joseph Harrison in slow-motion silhouette is…well…I’m sorry, it’s awful. It seems to me like a deliberate attempt to avoid having to actually film a combat scene, perhaps because neither actor was comfortable with one. Some effort was put into the teaser sequence, with a nice artistic shot of a marble bust that probably inspired some of the motifs in “The Six Thatchers.” So, overall not my favorite, but we move on. “Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?” Sherlock did as he was told, cautiously curious as Mr. Holmes carefully removed the cover of the hive. “Oh God,” Sherlock breathed out in surprise as John's mouth grazed low along his waistband, causing his cock to strain in his trousers. He knew the primal responses of his own body, of course. He was familiar with the furtive quelling of erotic midnight dreams and involuntary morning stiffness, his cock hard in his hand, the motions predictable, unimaginative, a cure for a inconvenient condition. He stopped by the window again, gazing down on the pavement, half hoping to catch a glimpse of John returning. Nothing moved in the pools of lamplight. Some part of him grew aware of a presence in the dim room, the lifting of the single sheet, the dip in the mattress, someone climbing quietly into bed. John stirred, surfacing as cool knees tucked under his thighs, a warm chest molded against his back, an arm drifting over his hip. Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially, feeling more like a teenager than a wise being. “I still have something of yours.” He returns home one evening, coming to a halt on the steps, the keys in his hand. The brass door knocker has been moved. Mycroft. He grits the name out in a huff and pushes open the door in irritation. He stops short again when his eyes land on John sitting on the bottom stair step in the half dark. Sherlock slid down against the arm of the sofa, finding himself sinking beneath John’s warm weight. His body hummed, the anticipation of hands and mouths on bare skin flashing through his mind. “Afterwards… whatever you want.” The casement window cranked open a few more inches and Sherlock leaned out. “What the devil are

<|output|> <|example|> as Watson knows) to pick up again. The pipe and slippers, the cigarette case, the revolver, etc. The very last image focused on, right after the “best and wisest man” line, is the empty syringe, seen through the iconic magnifying glass. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> It seems to me like a deliberate attempt to avoid having to actually film a combat scene, perhaps because neither actor was comfortable with one <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> you doing?” he hissed. I saw the image below around Christmastime and had to write a little Tumblr ficlet to go with it. This is not a 221b ficlet, but I needed a place to save it, so here we are. (The photo was described as "1915 London.") A hole burns in him. He wants to run. He wants to sleep. He walks until he reaches a busy road and hails a taxi. Friendship. That's what their relationship would have to become to survive the years ahead. He would have to recalibrate his expectations, temper his emotions, and accept the inevitable. John was moving on -- He'd been innocent once, unsullied before the lure of chemicals and crime took hold, was once able to idle away hours with an adventure book or a magnifying glass, studying plants and insects and sea shells. He sighed and set his briefcase down on the nearest desk, wondering if he had made a wise decision agreeing to teach forensic science for a year at this American university. Although the university was prestigious, his pay wasn’t spectacular. But the promise of change, of something novel, had been enticing. An old friend from his own university days had looked him up, luring him to the States with a light teaching load and paid housing, casually mentioning that New York City and the Atlantic Coast were just short train rides away, perfect for weekend jaunts. A familiar litany of self-loathing rattles around in his brain, making the walk home pass in a dark haze. He's thinking about cigarettes again when he reaches Baker Street and his phone vibrates against his knuckles. They stay by the fire as it dies to embers, talking about old cases to pass the time, waiting. Nothing else happens, so they light the tapers and make their way to the stairs. They gather their bags and climb the steps, the small flames casting eerie shadows along the walls. John had brought home the cake and wine as a surprise, knowing that Sherlock would ignore or even forget his own birthday unless confronted directly. He’d lifted an intrigued eyebrow at the sight of the pink bakery box and nodded approvingly at the wine selection, allowing John to lure him away from the microscope for an impromptu fête. The way Sherlock looked at him left him breathless. A lock of hair had fallen across his blue-green eyes, his lips parted, each lean muscle of his torso defined in the low light, his chest rising and falling evenly but perhaps a tad more quickly than usual. Sherlock rubs at an old scratch on the tabletop, subdued. They are repeating a circular argument that has no satisfactory resolution. And maybe, he realizes, he's assigning his own doubts and fears to John. A long silence follows. Everything was great. The stone stairs that accessed the beach, the bicycles, the cafe and cinema, the grassy spot by the pool. To John, everything was agreeable, a trait that Sherlock found tiresome but charmed everyone else. They smiled at each other and leaned against the bar, their gaze interrupted by the server asking what they’d

<|output|> <|example|> you doing?” he hissed. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He’d lifted an intrigued eyebrow at the sight of the pink bakery box and nodded approvingly at the wine selection, allowing John to lure him away from the microscope for an impromptu fête <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> To John, everything was agreeable, a trait that Sherlock found tiresome but charmed everyone else <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> like. John ordered a juice with carrot, apple, and ginger, and Sherlock reluctantly did the same. It reminded him of starting the fire for the bee smoker. Working with bees was not something he'd ever expected to learn during the summer, nor was experiencing the intense blossoming of his own desires. He gazed at John, who now kneeled beside him, strategically placing a few larger logs on the fire. “Did we? I'm always afraid I'll step on someone's feet,” Molly laughed. She turned her head, looking at the door where Sherlock had disappeared. “But Sherlock is such a good dancer, he made it seem easy.” Sherlock bites back an unflattering comment, deciding to play nice. He needs a favor. “There’s one more thing -- I ran across some old photographs of the family who used to live here. They had a son who served in the army during World War I.” "I didn't. Not long, anyway." John was fibbing. He'd waited 30 minutes, fretted about the chicken getting too dry. But it had turned out a lovely golden brown, moist, flavorful. The potatoes were fluffy, buttery. The ubiquitous peas were sprinkled with fresh mint. A meal like this really was best shared. John's lips part, nearly forming a word but failing. Sherlock winds his fingers tighter into the jacket, effectively drawing John incrementally closer. Sherlock’s eyes lock onto John's, watching for a sign, a warning or a welcome. I pull on my shirt and button it quickly, checking my watch as I grab my jacket and tie, rushing down the stairs to the sitting room. Sherlock fidgeted with his glass, a new thought crossing his mind. "You don't have to do this," he finally said, feeling that he might somehow be taking advantage of John's generosity. Nurse Cornish clatters into the room with a tea tray and places it on the low table by the sofa. She glances at the laptop screen as she pours him a cup. “How’s the private investigator business these days?” “No one’s home,” John added, as if reading Sherlock's thoughts. “They're out visiting friends. They'll be gone for hours.” The American turned to him, his sunglasses hooked above the button of his blue cotton shirt. He thrusted out his hand. “John Watson.” I slipped the house key back into my pocket and dumped my bag in the foyer. Dad was sitting on the sofa hunched over his laptop. He was wearing his reading glasses, sleeves pushed back, methodically pecking out each word. “Dammit, I left my jacket at the flat.” He glances at his watch again, calculating the time, wavering on what to do. Disentangling himself from John's lap, Sherlock sank to his knees between John's legs, bruises forgotten, and hooked his fingers over John's waistband. Not breaking their gaze, Sherlock tugged down as John lifted his hips, working the jeans and pants off and tossing them aside. It takes awhile for John to register that Sherlock’s large hands are now grasping his thighs, thumbs angled toward his crotch. The sight and pressure of those long fingers arouse him even more. He can’t stop himself from sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip and

<|output|> <|example|> like. John ordered a juice with carrot, apple, and ginger, and Sherlock reluctantly did the same. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Not breaking their gaze, Sherlock tugged down as John lifted his hips, working the jeans and pants off and tossing them aside <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> But it had turned out a lovely golden brown, moist, flavorful <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> He thrusted out his hand <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He'd waited 30 minutes, fretted about the chicken getting too dry <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> But it had turned out a lovely golden brown, moist, flavorful <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> rocking his pelvis into Sherlock’s grip, wanting his huge palm to cup his hardness. Sherlock scanned the beach, spying a large piece of driftwood that lay on its side. He walked over to it, noting the dark indentation among the rocks where previous fires had been built. The driftwood provided a natural buffer from the wind and a backrest, the ground worn soft and sandy where others had sat, a few empty bottles and cigarette butts littered about. “It's too bad. He looked like a nice fellow,” Molly said contemplatively. “What’s odd is, the police can’t find a second set of footprints anywhere in the area, apart from those of the farmer who found him.” They clambered up the rocky beach and climbed back onto the dock, where Sherlock scooped up the blanket, shivering slightly. “Wonderful.” Sherlock can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. Suddenly he just wants to lie down. “I’m going up to my room.” I’d only been home a week (much of that spent sleeping and roaming around the house at odd hours since my body didn’t know what time zone it was in) when I thought I might have to practice those sutures Dad had taught me. John’s heart quickened in return, suddenly nervous, stunned to have this beautiful creature perched over him, waiting. He tentatively moved his hand, placing his finger over Sherlock’s opening, massaging delicately. Olivia deserves not to be dragged along to emergency rooms and shown the darker side of human nature pinned up on a wall. She deserves a chance at having two parents in a healthy, public relationship. She could use at least one adult in her life who isn't a recovering addict of one kind or another. John strokes his fingers down Sherlock’s sternum, down into the slit of gaping fabric. He slowly slips the third button free, then slides both palms up Sherlock’s chest, pushing back the shirt, fully exposing the V of honey-hued skin on his neck and chest. The golden color will gradually fade to match the rest of Sherlock’s fair skin. By Christmas, all will be pale as snow again, no boundaries claiming “I hope you know —” Sherlock starts abruptly, then stops. “You should know that I appreciate it, your help with these things.” He’s grown to know John’s routines, the little domestic habits that mark the passing of each day. He can barely remember living in the flat without John, his belongings now intertwined with his own — his razor and soap, his coffee mug, his brown shoes, his laptop. John slid off Sherlock with a sigh, and they turned onto their sides again, this time face to face. John pulled the sheet up to their waists to keep in the warmth. Sherlock gently touched the scar on John's shoulder, memorizing the uneven texture of the skin. He watches John extend his hand to Olivia and she takes it, giving a little skip before she hops into the back of the cab as John holds the door open. Drawing in a deep breath, he took a few running steps and hurled himself into the water with a resounding splash.

<|output|> <|example|> rocking his pelvis into Sherlock’s grip, wanting his huge palm to cup his hardness. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sherlock scanned the beach, spying a large piece of driftwood that lay on its side <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “I’m going up to my room <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Sherlock gently touched the scar on John's shoulder, memorizing the uneven texture of the skin <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> The cold was a shock, slapping his skin and contracting his muscles. He burst through the surface again, letting out a shout. Sherlock fidgets, then takes a roundabout approach. “Did we ever have a relative who served in the first war?” Gradually, they fell into a routine. In the mornings, John assisted Sherlock’s parents while Sherlock went to the beach or on solitary bike rides. In the afternoons, they both worked by the pool, John chewing on a pen as he edited his pages, Sherlock scribbling on a composition. "no, you weren't. i assume you left not too long after me which would still leave you with a long enough timespan that a chatterbox such as sebastian could fill with countless pieces of useless information," sherlock responded. sherlock looked at the tv screen in front of him although he barely paid attention to what was happening on it. "did he, how predictable. though i didn't expect anything better from him," sherlock commented in his usual nonchalant tone, watching how the police in the movie began chasing after the criminal. sherlock averted his gaze briefly, pondering whether there was a use to try to lie about it before opening his mouth to speak. "i had, certain thoughts, that much is true," he said and glanced over at john. "mycroft figured out what was going on, of course he did, but i don't think he grasped the full extent of it. eventually i talked to him about it, the bullying and the thoughts, and if you think mycroft scary now you wouldn't want to know how he reacted when he heard. he pulled all registers after that, removed me from school, got me therapy and made sure my name wasn't anywhere to be found," he explained and stopped briefly to collect his thoughts. "it got better after that." "right, he seemed to know every little thing about everyone after only taking a glance at them," sebastian huffed and folded his hands on his desk. "he told this girl that her boyfriend was cheating on her, and didn't bat an eye when she stormed off crying. hell, he didn't even seem to understand what he had done wrong. he was always a weirdo, that guy," he said, his statement followed by a brief chuckle. it was something sherlock had picked up on himself, had already picked up on when he had entered the living room. the telly, the useless questions, the too long gaze - john wanted to talk about something but didn't know how to voice his thoughts. "what did he tell you?" sherlock asked, not looking away from the cup in front of him while he waited for the kettle to boil.

<|output|> <|example|> The cold was a shock, slapping his skin and contracting his muscles. He burst through the surface again, letting out a shout. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> "no, you weren't. i assume you left not too long after me which would still leave you with a long enough timespan that a chatterbox such as sebastian could fill with countless pieces of useless information," sherlock responded. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> "what did he tell you?" sherlock asked, not looking away from the cup in front of him while he waited for the kettle to boil <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> "mycroft figured out what was going on, of course he did, but i don't think he grasped the full extent of it <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> he pulled all registers after that, removed me from school, got me therapy and made sure my name wasn't anywhere to be found," he explained and stopped briefly to collect his thoughts <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> <|example|> He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> nodded wordlessly. He was more than alright; he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the person he wanted, finally answering a question that had long haunted him. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> squeeze of arse -- “to bottom.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of self-control. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> train. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> fell into bed, the ghostly imprint of the ring still whispering around his finger, but his hand felt lighter, free at last. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> of self-control. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> train. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> fell into bed, the ghostly imprint of the ring still whispering around his finger, but his hand felt lighter, free at last. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> yawning while I waited. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to look up through the leaves. Staying was a fanciful notion, an impossibility, and a bit too dull, really. They both had far too much ambition. Still, it was a peaceful picture. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> of self-control. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> yawning while I waited. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to look up through the leaves. Staying was a fanciful notion, an impossibility, and a bit too dull, really. They both had far too much ambition. Still, it was a peaceful picture. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster. Because the only answer to the question, “If she hates her that much, why doesn’t she just <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> loud bell Ross uses to summon his servants: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to Watson, Holmes “manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> launches into his own narrative. Watson does almost nothing, and the investigation is rendered completely irrelevant after the coroner determines that Barclay died of apoplexy. If I’d been running the series, I personally would have left this one alone. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Lady Frances–because she has too much autonomy, and yet at the same time not enough. She’s smart enough and strong enough to resist all the pressure and live her own life; and yet she’s also been made, somewhat arbitrarily, gullible enough to fall for Peters’s act. In most of the earlier stories about male predators, the predator is working without the victim’s knowledge or consent. Here and in “Illustrious Client,” Holmes and Watson can’t respect the victim’s desires, because what the victim desires is her own destruction. Holmes and Watson are pretty good players by now, but you can’t beat the house. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> ” <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster. Because the only answer to the question, “If she hates her that much, why doesn’t she just <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> loud bell Ross uses to summon his servants: <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> to Watson, Holmes “manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> launches into his own narrative. Watson does almost nothing, and the investigation is rendered completely irrelevant after the coroner determines that Barclay died of apoplexy. If I’d been running the series, I personally would have left this one alone. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Lady Frances–because she has too much autonomy, and yet at the same time not enough. She’s smart enough and strong enough to resist all the pressure and live her own life; and yet she’s also been made, somewhat arbitrarily, gullible enough to fall for Peters’s act. In most of the earlier stories about male predators, the predator is working without the victim’s knowledge or consent. Here and in “Illustrious Client,” Holmes and Watson can’t respect the victim’s desires, because what the victim desires is her own destruction. Holmes and Watson are pretty good players by now, but you can’t beat the house. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster. Because the only answer to the question, “If she hates her that much, why doesn’t she just <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Holmes and Watson are pretty good players by now, but you can’t beat the house <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> launches into his own narrative. Watson does almost nothing, and the investigation is rendered completely irrelevant after the coroner determines that Barclay died of apoplexy. If I’d been running the series, I personally would have left this one alone. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Lady Frances–because she has too much autonomy, and yet at the same time not enough. She’s smart enough and strong enough to resist all the pressure and live her own life; and yet she’s also been made, somewhat arbitrarily, gullible enough to fall for Peters’s act. In most of the earlier stories about male predators, the predator is working without the victim’s knowledge or consent. Here and in “Illustrious Client,” Holmes and Watson can’t respect the victim’s desires, because what the victim desires is her own destruction. Holmes and Watson are pretty good players by now, but you can’t beat the house. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> refuses to do so. He recognizes Green, in other words, as the stalker that he is; and it is completely reasonable for him to infer on that basis that Green is the villain of the piece. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of the Granada team. The boxing scene in “Solitary Cyclist” is really the only point at which I’ve ever fully believed in Brett’s fight scenes. The new Fight on the Ledge makes it look as if “baritsu” is the Japanese art of kneeing your opponent in the nuts and then pushing him over while he’s screaming. It’s also unfathomable to me why anyone asked or allowed Brett to let out a giant “YAAAAAAAA!” while he pounces on Moran. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Identity”), and the telegraph has for the first time allowed for text composed in one location to appear almost instantaneously a different location. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as comforting as Watson wants it to be. There are always the “moods” to deal with–moods which, it appears, are partly Holmes’s way of getting back at Watson for leaving him in the first place. Holmes even implies, at the end of this confrontation, that he left the syringe visible on purpose: “You my close that drawer. You have made the wrong diagnosis, Doctor! This is my stimulant.” And he hands him the King of Bohemia’s letter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> refuses to do so. He recognizes Green, in other words, as the stalker that he is; and it is completely reasonable for him to infer on that basis that Green is the villain of the piece. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> of the Granada team. The boxing scene in “Solitary Cyclist” is really the only point at which I’ve ever fully believed in Brett’s fight scenes. The new Fight on the Ledge makes it look as if “baritsu” is the Japanese art of kneeing your opponent in the nuts and then pushing him over while he’s screaming. It’s also unfathomable to me why anyone asked or allowed Brett to let out a giant “YAAAAAAAA!” while he pounces on Moran. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Identity”), and the telegraph has for the first time allowed for text composed in one location to appear almost instantaneously a different location. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as comforting as Watson wants it to be. There are always the “moods” to deal with–moods which, it appears, are partly Holmes’s way of getting back at Watson for leaving him in the first place. Holmes even implies, at the end of this confrontation, that he left the syringe visible on purpose: “You my close that drawer. You have made the wrong diagnosis, Doctor! This is my stimulant.” And he hands him the King of Bohemia’s letter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> if he got it right. The more exaggerated and over the top things got, the better it would be. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> It’s also unfathomable to me why anyone asked or allowed Brett to let out a giant “YAAAAAAAA!” while he pounces on Moran <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Identity”), and the telegraph has for the first time allowed for text composed in one location to appear almost instantaneously a different location. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as comforting as Watson wants it to be. There are always the “moods” to deal with–moods which, it appears, are partly Holmes’s way of getting back at Watson for leaving him in the first place. Holmes even implies, at the end of this confrontation, that he left the syringe visible on purpose: “You my close that drawer. You have made the wrong diagnosis, Doctor! This is my stimulant.” And he hands him the King of Bohemia’s letter. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> if he got it right. The more exaggerated and over the top things got, the better it would be. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> so you used it at least a few hours ago. your jacket is cold, you put it there a considerable while ago, and you wouldn't go out without a jacket in this weather so you were at home. the tea you left for me-" <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 | <|example|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that Sherlock being in love with John meant that they couldn’t be friends or colleagues. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> head exploding, Johns blood on the walls. He felt nauseated. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Identity”), and the telegraph has for the first time allowed for text composed in one location to appear almost instantaneously a different location <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> if he got it right. The more exaggerated and over the top things got, the better it would be. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 | <|example|> so you used it at least a few hours ago. your jacket is cold, you put it there a considerable while ago, and you wouldn't go out without a jacket in this weather so you were at home. the tea you left for me-" <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 | <|example|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that Sherlock being in love with John meant that they couldn’t be friends or colleagues. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> head exploding, Johns blood on the walls. He felt nauseated. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and checked his pulse. He shuddered as he did it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> parts. John didn’t listen, he just looked at Sherlock. How could he just say something like that and then just keep on talking about else. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 |

<|output|> <|example|> And at least for right now, it’s enough <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> that Sherlock being in love with John meant that they couldn’t be friends or colleagues. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> head exploding, Johns blood on the walls. He felt nauseated. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and checked his pulse. He shuddered as he did it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> parts. John didn’t listen, he just looked at Sherlock. How could he just say something like that and then just keep on talking about else. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> after a drive that took them almost through the whole city. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and was ringing a doorbell before John had paid the fare. He only heard the last of what Sherlock was saying. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> and checked his pulse. He shuddered as he did it. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> parts. John didn’t listen, he just looked at Sherlock. How could he just say something like that and then just keep on talking about else. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> after a drive that took them almost through the whole city. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and was ringing a doorbell before John had paid the fare. He only heard the last of what Sherlock was saying. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> hint of reaction. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|example|> hadn’t heard <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> after a drive that took them almost through the whole city. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and was ringing a doorbell before John had paid the fare. He only heard the last of what Sherlock was saying. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 | <|example|> hint of reaction. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> go all in now that they were already talking. if the topic drifted off, he doubted he'd be able to properly discuss it again anytime soon. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "Are you going home?" Mr Holmes asked as John put his card back in his wallet. He nodded his answer. <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop. Compared to other things that Holmes handles in the Granada series–test tubes, magnifying glasses, syringes, fireplace pokers, revolvers–paper has the virtue of extending and amplifying the actor’s gestures. The arc a sheet of newsprint describes as it travels through the air is bigger than the arc the hand holding it would describe alone. Paper, because it’s flexible and strong but delicate, quivers and dances and flutters like an extension of Holmes’s own <|indexes|> 2 | <|example|> body and spirit. Through paper, Brett’s Holmes expands to fill the space around him, becoming an elemental force, whipping up a tornado and then making it rain. This is something Brett had obviously learned before playing Holmes; but never was this put to use more effectively than in the Granada Series. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> showing. All of the most interesting things in this case have already happened before Musgrave shows up in London to consult Holmes. And three: I’m American. When I was 12, I had no idea who the fuck Charles I was, or what a cavalier was. I eventually learned, of course; but even then, I couldn’t really <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> His chest was heaving and his cheeks were red. He took a deep breath before he continued. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop. Compared to other things that Holmes handles in the Granada series–test tubes, magnifying glasses, syringes, fireplace pokers, revolvers–paper has the virtue of extending and amplifying the actor’s gestures. The arc a sheet of newsprint describes as it travels through the air is bigger than the arc the hand holding it would describe alone. Paper, because it’s flexible and strong but delicate, quivers and dances and flutters like an extension of Holmes’s own <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 |

<|output|> <|example|> Sherlock jumped out of the cab and was ringing a doorbell before John had paid the fare <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> go all in now that they were already talking. if the topic drifted off, he doubted he'd be able to properly discuss it again anytime soon. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "Are you going home?" Mr Holmes asked as John put his card back in his wallet. He nodded his answer. <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop. Compared to other things that Holmes handles in the Granada series–test tubes, magnifying glasses, syringes, fireplace pokers, revolvers–paper has the virtue of extending and amplifying the actor’s gestures. The arc a sheet of newsprint describes as it travels through the air is bigger than the arc the hand holding it would describe alone. Paper, because it’s flexible and strong but delicate, quivers and dances and flutters like an extension of Holmes’s own <|indexes|> 2 | <|example|> body and spirit. Through paper, Brett’s Holmes expands to fill the space around him, becoming an elemental force, whipping up a tornado and then making it rain. This is something Brett had obviously learned before playing Holmes; but never was this put to use more effectively than in the Granada Series. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> showing. All of the most interesting things in this case have already happened before Musgrave shows up in London to consult Holmes. And three: I’m American. When I was 12, I had no idea who the fuck Charles I was, or what a cavalier was. I eventually learned, of course; but even then, I couldn’t really <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> Early on, Holmes drops a snarky comment about Watson’s limited medical skills, and Mrs. Hudson says, “You only say that because you miss the doctor.” You can see immediately from his reaction that she has HIS number. Yes, Holmes misses the doctor and I miss him too. And this is another of those somewhat spooky ways in which Brett’s illness forces the Granada series to correspond with the canon arc–in which, toward the end of the saga, Watson starts to drop out of the picture. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> grouse. It’s nice to see him and Watson getting to relax a bit, before everything goes down. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> And then I realized. In the sickbed scenes, because Holmes is pretending to be sick, Brett didn’t have to pretend to be well. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> trying to justify Britain’s indefensible conduct of the Boer War. So in “The Crooked Man,” the ‘scandal’ isn’t just Barclay’s personal treachery–the story summed up in Mrs. Barclay’s allusions to the biblical “David”–but British responsibility for the mutiny (since Barclay becomes, at the moment he sets Wood up for this, a mutineer himself). And this is interesting in a kind of intellectual way, but I can’t really <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> though Watson’s theory is wrong, and Holmes knows immediately that it’s wrong, he recognizes the one thing Watson’s demonstrating here that he’s been lacking: imagination. Watson’s identification of the killer makes no sense (why, if Gibson killed his wife to frame Dunbar, would he then ruin a plan that was going extremely well by calling in Sherlock Holmes to save the woman he framed?); but by changing this from a story about the murder of Maria Gibson into a story about the framing of Grace Dunbar, he’s shown Holmes the way to the real solution. What you see from Brett as Holmes recognizes that is new, and it’s complicated. In his “Watson, you put me to shame!” you can feel both admiration and anger. All along he’s wanted Watson to reach this level; but Holmes still wants to be the one in charge. Maybe that’s why he dumps Watson’s revolver in the pond. (Hardwicke’s reactions throughout that whole scene are priceless.) <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 | <|example|> as Watson knows) to pick up again. The pipe and slippers, the cigarette case, the revolver, etc. The very last image focused on, right after the “best and wisest man” line, is the empty syringe, seen through the iconic magnifying glass. <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> “Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> go all in now that they were already talking. if the topic drifted off, he doubted he'd be able to properly discuss it again anytime soon. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "Are you going home?" Mr Holmes asked as John put his card back in his wallet. He nodded his answer. <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop. Compared to other things that Holmes handles in the Granada series–test tubes, magnifying glasses, syringes, fireplace pokers, revolvers–paper has the virtue of extending and amplifying the actor’s gestures. The arc a sheet of newsprint describes as it travels through the air is bigger than the arc the hand holding it would describe alone. Paper, because it’s flexible and strong but delicate, quivers and dances and flutters like an extension of Holmes’s own <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 <|example|> “Where on earth –” John is stunned, pleased, suddenly grinning like a fool as he reaches out to touch the green branches. “You carried this halfway across the city?” <|indexes|> 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 |

<|output|> <|example|> <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> And now, let me extol the virtues of paper as a stage prop <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> <|example|> He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> of self-control. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 | | <|example|> up before I left for India, so we didn't really stay in contact anymore. Sometimes I missed him, but we both had probably changed a lot during the last year, anyway. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | | <|example|> scheme so that you die before you have a chance to enjoy it? Only for a character who’s basically a tossed salad of Anglo-antifeminist stereotypes could this plot ever pass muster. Because the only answer to the question, “If she hates her that much, why doesn’t she just <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> whole fleet of horror movies. If they had scheduled this one for, say, the winter of 1985, between the first and second series of the <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 | | <|example|> does full justice to both Violet Hunter’s extraordinariness and Holmes and Watson’s respect for her. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 | | <|example|> the viewer, and our anger with a world in which one person can get through life healthy and happy and another has to struggle every day, a world full of arbitrary distinctions made according to no reason any of us can understand. And it gives us a final moment with the Great Partnership, together again and for always, balanced there on the thin ice separating right and reason from the abyss below. Goodbye, Granada Holmes. I’ll miss you. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 | | <|example|> so much. He knows Watson wants something from him he’s not providing; he’s pained at being unable to provide it; he provides instead what he can, which is the box of cigars and the chance of another adventure. And at least for right now, it’s enough. Look at Watson’s face in that image up top. Holmes has just told him that he’s going to need Watson’s help for this dangerous mission; and Watson literally sits up straighter in his chair, all eagerness and attention. He’s so proud that Holmes wants him. After reading the King’s letter, Watson says, rather sadly, that the client clearly won’t want him around and he should go, and Holmes tells him, very clearly: no. I need you. Stay. Well, actually, what he says is, “I am lost without my Boswell.” They give you a nice closeup on Brett’s face as he says it, and it just makes your heart go AAAAAAH!!! <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 | | <|example|> the theft. John was surprised that it was Mr Bryce that spook for the siblings. He looked uncomfortable, almost shy. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 | | <|example|> hadn’t heard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> on his way out he couldn't catch a glimpse of sherlock and sebastian's secretary kindly informed him that the detective had left in a hurry almost ten minutes ago. john left the bank building and took a cab home, wondering on the way whether or not he'd still see sherlock that day. no matter how often he had told him not to run off on his own, his partner still seemed unused to the notion of having someone with him during his investigations. it was only natural, john supposed, after years of working alone. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 | |

<|output|> <|example|> He turns, wanting to greet John properly, and is surprised to see no one is there. Uncertain, he reaches out, his hand making contact with what he thinks is an arm. “John?” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “But only slightly less well known is this: if you happen to be running an television series that deals in mystery, horror, and suspense, NEVER build an episode of it around animal possession.” <|indexes|> 1 1 <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|example|> "sebastian," sherlock gave as a curt response. "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued. <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 <|example|> You’re early, he said as he opened the door. John stepped in to a nice apartment full off clutter. Every open surface was full of papers and books. Sherlock’s laptop balanced on the armrest of a sofa. At a small table at the door lay a violin. <|indexes|> 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 <|indexes|> 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 <|indexes|> 2 2 <|indexes|> 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 <|indexes|> 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2 |

<|output|> <|example|> "i take it you didn't just silently sit in his office the entire time, he isn't the person to do that," he continued <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> His lips started traveling upwards toward my cocklet and clit. With one swift moment he swallowed down my cocklet and started sucking, hard. With a pat on his arms to stop, I said, “I am not cleaning this up later and this is a nice shirt. It isn’t going to be dirtied by food. Take me to the bedroom,” I felt like I was forgetting something but that thought was banished as Tony pulled all the way out until only his tip was in me before pushing back in, faster this time. With the last squeeze of my nipple that made me let out a small moan. He pulled his hand down and held my other thigh down until I couldn't move anymore. I didn’t have much time to get used to Tony's tongue just resting on my pussy before he was full on lapping at my pussy. Tony picked me up. Yes you read that right. I was surprised as well the first time he did it. His reasoning was that he bench pressed and worked on machinery, so he was used to picking up heavy loads. I probably should have been more offended when he said that, but it was our first time sleeping together. When he started to go faster, I swear I don’t how that speed is humanly possible, my hands went from holding onto the sheet to his greasy, black hair. Tony chuckled low and sinful that had me shivering before he picked me up again and was leading me to my room when I had one more thing to say. Being a carrier is literally just a man that has the abilities of a woman. Like bitch I am more of a man than your boring ass middle aged husband who literally was cheating on you with another carrier down the hall named Don. Just because he later left you for him and their kid doesn’t mean you can judge me bitch. Next thing I knew I was gasping because he was running up one of his fingers up and down my pussy lips before resting at my entrance. Soon he was pushing in and quickly setting a brutal pace that left me panting for more. “You rest. I got you,” Tony said softly as he continued to pepper me with kisses and clean me up with a washcloth. As he slipped down my favorite blue and white, lacy bra he kissed down my breast sending shivers down my spine. I planned the dinner for the day that changed everything and planned to make the Danish dish karbonder for dinner and the Dutch dish oliebol for dessert. Then I headed for bed with the plan to spend most of the day, that changed everything, cooking and getting ready. Even back when I was born and being a carrier was something to hide because a man having a pussy, dick, and small breasts, while also getting periods and having the ability to get pregnant wasn’t god's will. Even though the judgy assholes who lived near us would always tell her to stop and teach me to be a man. Well fuck

<|output|> <|example|> His lips started traveling upwards toward my cocklet and clit. With one swift moment he swallowed down my cocklet and started sucking, hard. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Like bitch I am more of a man than your boring ass middle aged husband who literally was cheating on you with another carrier down the hall named Don <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> As he slipped down my favorite blue and white, lacy bra he kissed down my breast sending shivers down my spine <|indexes|> 1 1 |

<|text|> you Michelle of apartment 18 you also think that carriers are just women with dicks. I squirmed before I looked up into Tony’s eyes as he straddled the lower part of my legs. His eyes were just staring at the wine drip all over my dick and seep into the lips of my pussy with arousal dancing in his eyes. I closed my eyes as he continued to thrust into me. My hand was tight on my mouth as I continually moaned. I felt Tony’s calloused hands on the hand that was my mouth pulling the hand away from my face as his other hand removed my other hand from the tight grip I had on the sheets. I had to banish the thought that the red would be a bitch to get out with the thought that this wasn’t the first red substance to be spilled on this bed. That title was for the July period incident that still has me deeply embarrassed even though Tony said that it was fine. At least I was able to send out the red alert text to Tony that told him that he wasn’t a father topped with siren/alarm emojis which makes him laugh every time. “Yes,” the fellow answered after a moment, his eyes flicking nervously to Benjamino, who was standing at Steve’s left attempting to be unobtrusive. “I know his face well. All the shoe shiners know to look out for him. He is a fascist -” the man spat the word like it was dirty, and then seemed to catch himself. His eyes went big and darted fearfully to Captain Altera, whose attention had been pricked by a word he understood. Greetings. So, some of you know this already but TheFault_InOurThought and I have some exciting life changes headed our way and with that in mind we are going to have to do some reorganizing. The Germans were coming. The very air seemed to know it, grew heavy and thick with the foreboding of it. With Charlotte gone, there was only one route of escape left. They would go into the mountains to hide until the resistance could organize enough supplies and a safe route for the family to escape to Switzerland on foot. “He’s also quite good with his hands too. Truly, Herr Stark I’m beginning to wonder if there is anything at all that you can’t do.” The children had stopped singing, baffled voices trailing off to follow his enraptured gaze to the scene unfolding meters away. They’d spent a few months trying to find recruiting officers dumb enough to believe they were past the age of eighteen or desperate enough to pretend that they did. And by then Austria had been desperate. Steve was sure that the only reason it had taken them as long as it had to be accepted was because of how desperately young (not to mention skinny) Steve had looked at thirteen. But the war had changed them all. People were starving, especially in Galicia where people had been starving long before the war had even begun. They were too hungry even to fear

<|output|> <|example|> you Michelle of apartment 18 you also think that carriers are just women with dicks. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 <|example|> “Yes,” the fellow answered after a moment, his eyes flicking nervously to Benjamino, who was standing at Steve’s left attempting to be unobtrusive. “I know his face well. All the shoe shiners know to look out for him. He is a fascist -” the man spat the word like it was dirty, and then seemed to catch himself. His eyes went big and darted fearfully to Captain Altera, whose attention had been pricked by a word he understood. <|indexes|> 1 1 1 1 1 1 |

<|output|> <|example|> All the shoe shiners know to look out for him <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> I closed my eyes as he continued to thrust into me <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> the Russian’s guns. Steve couldn’t help but glance back at Natacha. He couldn’t explain it but he wanted her nowhere near either Mueller or his nephew. He was just in time to hear her telling Emil that he had no need to win the race in her honor as she had every intention of winning it herself. It seemed to him one moment they were down in the lobby waiting for the arrival of the elevator and the next they were walking through the doors of the elegant double suite that was to be theirs for the duration of their stay. Tony berated himself. It was one thing to let his thumping (and far too hopeful) heart get mushy over the man’s children, it was another thing to latch onto wishful thinking. He would imagine that many officers were less than genuinely supportive of the Reich, but that was a far cry from outright treason and rebellion. Many of those same men found it within themselves to follow their orders, no matter how distasteful. Captain Rogers was no doubt the same. "I don't know." Stefen confessed, the word sounding torn from him. The room plunged into silence, but for the sound of harsh breathing.  Tony wanted to scream. “I’ve been to a lot of coffee houses, Stark, including the Italian’s. There really aint much difference.” Bakhuizen countered and Tony, bored with the line of conversation already, plucked up one of the sweet cakes and gestured with it as he explained. Anamarie's whisper came back to him and the question she'd asked him. Was he the kind of person who acted on knowing what it meant to be a good man, or did he just wish on stars? It was an insult, after these many weeks when Dvorak had seen to the training of the regiment all by himself – his long overdue leave was now being interrupted to travel some miles in the rain and snow, to urge along the man's recovery. He was to take Major Rogers and escort him back to the regiment where they would assume their posting. Dvorak had received sobering instructions to answer any resistance with the full measure of the law. While the idea of Rogers facing judicial punishment over something as pathetic as a cold was practically glee inspiring, his enjoyment of the situation was dimmed by his subsequent demotion to a fetching maid. Steve’s heart sank in his chest with dread. It was the same with two others he asked. Everyone had the same story. The Hall had been gutted. No one was left and if they were they were in no sort of shape to leave. Mueller was not a neighbor but Steve knew plenty of him. He’d been a policeman in the city for years, an early Nazi supporter long before anyone could even dream of Germany annexing their country. He was SS now, and very proud of that fact.  But Steve hadn’t known he was married, let alone that he had a teenaged son. They were all moving and talking after that but what really struck Steve nearly deaf and dumb

<|output|> <|example|> the Russian’s guns. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The Hall had been gutted <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> was Artur, who took one look at him and made an explosive noise of delight, zooming toward him like a bullet to target. “Sure.” Bucky answered with a lazy smile and Steve didn’t protest. Coulson slowly withdrew a small envelope and slid it across the table towards Steve. Bahkuizen had accused him of cowardice, but that was just the pot calling the kettle black. Everything that dog did was out of the fear of losing his precious family. ‘Famila’ he called it, or some other foreign nonsense. Bahkuizen must have seen his own fate in Dvorak’s face, because Dvorak was dead. He’d accepted that the day his girls had been taken. Some men reserved their suicide for private spaces. Others preferred to perform in public and call it a rescue attempt. When Joshua clapped his hands together and rubbed them suggesting that they get started Tony was about to insist on offering his help when the man looked him up and down and said, “With you helping it will cut the time in half. I hope you’re good with your hands.” Our prayers have been answered. The Brothers are to be released into the hands of Cardinal Rossi. I am to journey with the brothers and the Cardinal to Engzall Abbey and then further onto Rome at the abbot’s request to give his report. I must admit the thought of standing before the cardinals makes me sick with nerves, but I am so grateful for the Mercy our Lord has shown the Brothers from Engzall that there is hardly room even for nerves. Arrangements are still being made, and these things take much time and paperwork as you know, so I will likely be here in Dachau for a few weeks longer. I will send word to you when I am to depart, and when I am home again at St. Péter’s. “Captain Rogers is a powerful man Antony. He has ties to every office in this country, be it military or political. Not to mention he has friends abroad. You called him ‘the favored son’ and I suppose that’s true. He’s a symbol of Austrian strength and nationalism.” Hammer looked up at the sound of the chauffer's voice and his smile, reeking of smug satisfaction, made Tony’s stomach churn as the butler chortled and sneered at them all. “I wouldn’t hold my breath on him coming back. Desertion is treason, and that’s punishable by death.” Stefen looked so disturbed at the thought of Tony not being there, that it was hard for Tony to ignore his thumping heart of the way that blood wanted to rush to his cheeks. Steve had to fight to unclench his jaw before he broke it. Around him he could feel the tension from the others, thick enough to cut with a bread knife. Over in the lounge chair, Pike, a retired Captain in the German Navy stirred, blinking his eyes slowly open from his interrupted sleep before leaning forward and looked at them all, gritting out through his teeth. “It’s a series of short stories about the life of an adventurer and his brother. They travel all

<|output|> <|example|> was Artur, who took one look at him and made an explosive noise of delight, zooming toward him like a bullet to target. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> The Brothers are to be released into the hands of Cardinal Rossi <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ‘Famila’ he called it, or some other foreign nonsense <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> over the world looking for ancient artifacts, battling barbarians, wooing pretty women and the like. The stories could be better in my opinion but the artwork is so thrilling it makes up for it.” He flashed back to that day outside the music room, it seemed so long ago now, when Tony had admitted to idolizing those old war stories about him. He'd said he'd sobered up, kept going despite the horror he'd lived through because Steve had given him courage. Tony wasn't a boy anymore but Péter still was... “You’ll have a code book and I’ll arrange for a runner to come for the messages you’ve transcribed. Be sure before you agree. It’ll be dangerous, putting your voice out there. If the Germans ever intercept a broadcast they will be looking for you.” At the mention of the Captain Natacha perked to attention. She lingered behind as the rest of her siblings filed obediently out the door at Frau Hogan’s insistence, catching the older woman’s eye when the last of them had disappeared. “I know!” Tony cut him off, grabbing Péter’s arm and then Ian, who was closest, and tugging them in the direction of the truck. “Hurry. Get to the truck. The barrels. Cover yourselves. Right now! Go!” But father had given him Calico Bush. Mama had read it to him every night even when he’d been sick, and when Mama had gotten sick he’d read it to her. She’d liked when he read to her. It had helped Da sleep. It helped Ian sleep when he missed them. It was all he had left of either of them and James had just thrown it like it was garbage! The motion of Steve’s head slowed down, his mouth dragging down Tony’s shaft with an uncoordinated scrape of teeth that drove a hiss of pain from Tony even as something electric danced down his spine. He’d never felt this way before, never wanted to take something so badly and come down another’s throat like a perfect heathen, and he’d slept with seasoned professionals. There was no artifice to the way that Stefen sucked him. No skill, too much teeth, and his strength was flagging by the second, but Steve was looking up at him between sweat soaked bangs with hazy eyes that begged him to take the reins, to take them both where they needed to be and Tony couldn’t have turned away for all the angels in the heavens. As she stepped back into line the little boy on her left (the real Artur) hissed at her that it wasn’t proper to say such things and Maria indignantly hissed back, “And why not? Don’t you think he’s pretty?” “I think he and Göring are the best thing for Germany. I do. I know they’re very different in their ways, but I had hoped…” Fischer trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished with a sigh. “Hitler is right. We must preserve the German way. Restore Germany’s glory.” Tony just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the way he managed to make hours sound like months. “Tony would you please?”

<|output|> <|example|> over the world looking for ancient artifacts, battling barbarians, wooing pretty women and the like. The stories could be better in my opinion but the artwork is so thrilling it makes up for it.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> “I know!” Tony cut him off, grabbing Péter’s arm and then Ian, who was closest, and tugging them in the direction of the truck <|indexes|> 0 <|example|> “I know!” Tony cut him off, grabbing Péter’s arm and then Ian, who was closest, and tugging them in the direction of the truck <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> I do <|indexes|> 2 2 2 <|example|> She lingered behind as the rest of her siblings filed obediently out the door at Frau Hogan’s insistence, catching the older woman’s eye when the last of them had disappeared <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> Mama had read it to him every night even when he’d been sick, and when Mama had gotten sick he’d read it to her <|indexes|> 4 |

<|text|> He pleaded, looking apologetically at the monk who looked supremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I know it’s an inconvenience but it’s just for the night. He’ll be more reasonable when he feels better.” The Generals wanted the Führer kept alive, and to make a public show of his trail.  They said it was the only way to ensure that the public did not revolt. Hitler was not without love here in Germany after all. They were confident though that the people’s desire to avoid war would prove stronger than their loyalty to a fallen Emperor, but privately Steve didn’t think it would be that easy. Hitler would not go quiet and he was too dangerous to keep alive. A fight was a fight. Stray bullets killed men all the time. “No more of that!” Tony snapped in warning. “If you lot can’t behave yourselves we won't be doing this again. I have many other things I could be doing with my time.” that he’d refused to eat potatoes for years. He’d had to get older before he realized there was a whole lot wrong with the secret adventures he and his mother had shared, and a whole lot of other reasons besides potatoes for his nonna to bear such a terrible sadness. Tony could have made a fair guess at this stage but he wanted to hear it in Stefen's words. He shook his head and Stefen nodded, as if he'd been expecting just that answer before saying, "There is a saying among my people, 'when I die, burry me standing. I have been on my knees all my life.' Beside him Bucky inhaled sharply. Steve didn’t look at him, though he could feel the anger in his stare. He’d not shared this news before but only because it was as recent as this morning’s round of meetings. He’d had no intention of keeping it secret because there was little point. They’d known it would happen. It was only a matter of when. Tony had no idea what to say to that and no intention of touching that statement with a ten-foot pole. He knew Farkas was making his decision so he just waited. Bed. They needed a bed. But Stefen tasted faintly of mint and something deeper, something so Stefen, and Tony groaned, sliding his tongue against Stefen’s and chasing after his taste. He wanted more of it desperately but sharper was the ache for touch, and Tony’s shaking hands stroked franticly over the long column of Stefen’s throat, down the back of his neck and over the breadth of his shoulders to catch on the straps of his suspenders. Brow furrowed, Steve stepped up next to him to look out onto the street below them. Ants. The improbable thought popped into his head. Artur would have said they looked just like ants. There had been people loitering around outside of city hall when Steve had arrived but there were dozens of them now, forming a thickening mass of bodies blocking the steps. Several young men stood on the steps with their backs to the building and were

<|output|> <|example|> He pleaded, looking apologetically at the monk who looked supremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I know it’s an inconvenience but it’s just for the night. He’ll be more reasonable when he feels better.” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> It was only a matter of when <|indexes|> 0 0 0 <|example|> Tony had no idea what to say to that and no intention of touching that statement with a ten-foot pole <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> I have many other things I could be doing with my time <|indexes|> 2 2 |

<|text|> speaking to the crowd. They were HJ Steve noted, and among the crowd they’d managed to rally Steve could spot at least fifty more. Even from their distance Steve could hear the faint sound of their raised voices. Bucky blinked at him, trying to calm the rushing in his ears. When had Steve come in? He needed to relax, he scolded himself. Breathe in. Breathe out. The last thing the kids needed was another adult losing it on them. Bucky eyed Steve warily as the children shifted uneasily in their chairs, hyper aware of Steve as he doggedly went through the motions of putting food on his plate. Bucky had to suppress a flicker of irritation as he watched. He'd bet his violin Steve wouldn't touch any of that food. surprised to find him on the terrace of all places, sitting at the table with a sketchpad open, pencil scratching away at paper. Bucky was happy to see it, as it had been far too long since Stefen had taken the time to draw anything. He only wished it wasn’t the dangerous endeavor of passing coded messages that had brought it back again. "It's not as exciting as playing hero, but somebody from the family had to make an appearance at the rally. Charlotte agreed." It was a slight. A cruel and unearned one that a lesser woman would have been crushed by. Charlotte could not pretend that she had not considered tossing her drink over the man’s head when he’d come to her out of the blue with his proposal, like she was a dog he expected to find waiting faithfully at the door for his attention. Hammer looked outraged, swelling up and opening his mouth to retort but he choked on whatever he was going to say as the lieutenant glared him into silence. The officer looked pained, but not for the reason Tony would have expected. “Fine, Chavo,” he grunted in reply, praying that was the end of the boy’s insistent questions as his brain throbbed inside his skull like a heartbeat. If any song is the "title track" of this story it's this one, and as Tony and his new family say goodbye to the happy days of summer and step into a much darker phase of their journey, we'd like to introduce it to you. So, you might be wondering. Out of all the music out there why did we choose a song released in the 1990's as our story's signature piece? “Tony?” Maria questioned, her brown eyes going wide with worry as the feeling of tension in the room sank in. “Did we do something wrong?” The Avenger was a beautiful vessel if Tony didn't say so himself.  Steel boned and constructed of his very own high strength plywood. Her cherry wood gleamed brightly in the pale winter sun, her name standing out boldly in gold script. She had two long benches in the back where six men could sit comfortably with moderate leg room, and an enclosed cockpit large enough for two to man the controls. “Major Rogers is right.” Khalmmer finally said into the silence and

<|output|> <|example|> speaking to the crowd. They were HJ Steve noted, and among the crowd they’d managed to rally Steve could spot at least fifty more. Even from their distance Steve could hear the faint sound of their raised voices. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He only wished it wasn’t the dangerous endeavor of passing coded messages that had brought it back again <|indexes|> 0 0 |

<|text|> Steve’s eyes flew to his. “We are not the monsters our foreign enemies paint us. Only, just last week I oversaw the removal of a band of illegal Jews…” Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Natacha cry. She must have when her mother had died, he knew that logically. But no matter how hard he tried to remember, all that he recalled was her pale face and her skinny arms and legs drowning in a black dress. Her vibrant hair had been tamed into a severe bun because her mother wasn’t there to help her get the curls she liked and Virginia insisted that buns were more practical for a funeral. She’s got a chance to go back home. She’s young and pretty. She could maybe find some fellow willing to overlook the fact that she married outside of her own people the first go around, sit pretty and maybe once a year think back and wonder what might have become of Naomi; but instead she sticks by her, journeys into the mouth of the unknown just so they can be together. She had faith that whatever life they built together no matter how poor would be better than any she could find on her own if she turned her back and walked away from what was right. She must have found who she wanted to be in Naomi’s family… I’m envious Péter. I’d like to be so certain. Wouldn’t you?” “I know it's hard to see it now but you must trust me. There are people working to put an end to this, people who would do anything to stop us from going to another war. " At the greeting Bucky slowly glanced up at the children's tutor. He’d been purposefully avoiding meeting Stark’s gaze. He'd prefer to leave that problem for later in the day but one real look at Stark was enough to know that had been a mistake. Thank you for reading. We know these updates take us ages what with busy lives and how long they typically are, but we appreciate you all so much. We read every comment. They give us fuel and motivate us to get across the finish line each time. Tony was as anxious as he was curious to know what purpose Stefen could have discovered in the last few weeks to bring about these changes, because it struck him as eerily familiar. Tony was glad to see Bucky back safe after the horror of the pogroms. They'd stretched all over the Reichland, from Salzburg to Berlin. Anything could have happened to him out there; but that just made Péter's absence at his side all the more noticeable and Tony's chest tightened with dread, certain that them not having entered together meant that Bucky had not been able to find him. “You should have told me before.” She accused, rising from her chair. “I could have made a mistake with Frauline Werner.” "Will Father be at home when we get there?" Artur, who was sat on the long seat opposite the seat the girls had chosen, asked halfway through the

<|output|> <|example|> Steve’s eyes flew to his. “We are not the monsters our foreign enemies paint us. Only, just last week I oversaw the removal of a band of illegal Jews…” <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> She’s got a chance to go back home <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> Steve’s eyes flew to his <|indexes|> 1 1 1 <|example|> " At the greeting Bucky slowly glanced up at the children's tutor <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> ” "Will Father be at home when we get there?" Artur, who was sat on the long seat opposite the seat the girls had chosen, asked halfway through the <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Only, just last week I oversaw the removal of a band of illegal Jews…” Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Natacha cry <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> We read every comment <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> ride and the baroness had smiled sympathetically at him with a shake of her head and a wink. “Corporal. Stop by the barracks. I need a change of uniform,” He commanded, leaning forward to ease the pressure on his legs. Riding in side car was like trying to cram himself in a suitcase. "No. She always sleeps with it. We looked for it to pack but no one could find it. We have to go back!" The others began to lift their voices in agreement, offering a ridiculously long list of items that had been left behind that they apparently couldn't live without. “Because Hitler sends his troops where they don’t belong to take what never belonged to him.” Steve broke in, rage simmering just under the surface. “Or did you forget that?” “What did you do?” She finally asked, creeping an inch or two closer. Steve clenched his fists, but by some miracle he held still this time. They’d attacked. Beat at him with their weapons and torn a screaming Maria right from his arms. James and Artur had jumped on the back of the man attacking him, allowing Tony to get the upper hand. Natacha and Ian had flown at the other as soon as he’d grabbed Maria. The man had swung the pipe into Ian’s stomach screaming he was a Jew Lover. Natacha cut him with something sharp. Tony had not seen what, had not waited more than a second after the man had staggered back from the children in shock before tackling him, twisting the heavy piece of piping out of his grip and beating him with it until he didn’t move anymore. “What kind of a question is that? Why are you a captain?” He shot back defensively, but Stefen ignored it, pressing on with a patient look. Steve sighed, his chest was so tight with anxiety he could feel the muscles click and shift over bone. He had a right to feel so miserably anxious and no right to complain. He deserved it. He’d neglected Charlotte these last few months and she wasn’t the type of woman above punishing him for it. As far as power moves went this wasn’t bad. It certainly made it obvious what she had in mind for him to do when she arrived. It was the dead of night when an armored truck rolled to a stop outside an unassuming apartment building in the city of Berlin. Steve was crouched in the back with fifteen other men, ammunition and gear rattling against his legs. He had a small velvet bag open in one palm, the beads he’d purchased at Pippen’s shop what felt like years ago now rattling softly as Steve and the others were jostled by the movement of the truck. He rolled one of the beads between his fingers fitfully, marveling at the unusually deep red of the coral. “No one can see you!” the man hissed through clenched teeth. “No one! Understand? Not a stranger hiking, not a child that happens to be wandering, no one.” “That was a long time ago. I don't think I know this place anymore,” Sam finally

<|output|> <|example|> ride and the baroness had smiled sympathetically at him with a shake of her head and a wink. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> James and Artur had jumped on the back of the man attacking him, allowing Tony to get the upper hand <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> ” “That was a long time ago <|indexes|> 1 |

<|text|> said into the silence with a heavy sigh and Steve frowned, turning to counter him as outside the train station came into view down the block. "They'll call you a defector when you don't report to the next city on the tour. They'll find out and they’ll take us all away!" She hissed, her fingers digging into his coat and twisting. She wasn't strong enough to move him, she knew that in her head, but there was no stopping in her. In that moment she would have pulled down a pine tree if it got in her way. “Damn you! You and Bucky are both the same. Do you really think I’d die without making arrangements for them?” Tony touched one of the frames, gently running his finger over the finish. How many battles had the captain fought? Had he been honored for all of them? He must have. He wasn’t that old and yet there were so many of them. There were ten that he could count, gold and silver pelted stars all just as pristine as the butler Rogers employed to run his house. did he insist upon holding himself aloof? Pure stubbornness, Tony decided observing the man as he silently ate his dinner, doing very little to engage in the conversation Bakhuizen kept up with the children despite Ian’s longing looks and shy attempts to rope him in. “My word James, are those necessary?” Frau Hogan had exclaimed, shocked at the sight of the weapons. Her eyes widened even as her brow furrowed deeply in puzzlement, as if she were trying desperately to unravel the meaning behind the gesture and didn’t quite trust the conclusion she was coming to. They hadn’t spoken privately since she’d confessed to poisoning her father he realized. He wondered if he’d even touched her and couldn’t think of an instance. It had been too long since he’d seen her genuinely happy like this, and he knew how quickly this moment would fade. He’d been so wrapped up in Stefen’s recovery he hadn’t stopped to think what she might need from him. “I don’t think it was that. I think he just didn’t want to mix up the work with his family.” Kirk shrugged. “He was the same way about the wife. You’d see their faces, hear their names on people’s tongues, but then you’d start thinking about it and you’d realize you did’t know anything about them. Not really. Tony thought privately. It was not as if Stefen had any interest in a celebration, or Tony and the children any reason to think they wouldn’t just be in the way. Once resigned to the fact that he couldn’t escape it Ian took to his lesson with single minded vigor, determined to abolish the discomfort of finding himself in an arena where he wasn’t capable (where he couldn’t He was stroking in earnest now, sweat prickling at his temples, one hand rubbing without conscious direction at his stomach. Up and over scars and patches of skin that alternated between deadened and electric with nerves. That revelation was enough for Steve to pull his eyes away from

<|output|> <|example|> said into the silence with a heavy sigh and Steve frowned, turning to counter him as outside the train station came into view down the block. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He’d been so wrapped up in Stefen’s recovery he hadn’t stopped to think what she might need from him <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> He wondered if he’d even touched her and couldn’t think of an instance <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> That revelation was enough for Steve to pull his eyes away from <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “Damn you! You and Bucky are both the same <|indexes|> 3 3 <|example|> In that moment she would have pulled down a pine tree if it got in her way <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> the curious old woman and shoot Tony a look and the monk just smiled winsomely back. Susann’s eyes looked Tony up and down with amusement. There was a clever gleam in her blue eyes as she murmured, “A monk. I suppose it Natacha was a leader like him in the Young Maidens and looked incredibly grown up in her uniform, her red hair bright in the late summer sun. She did well, but Péter knew she wasn't well liked among the other girls. Partly due to their jealousy of her wealth, her name, and the station it had granted her, but mostly because Natacha held herself apart and came off as stand-offish. So here they were, together, Dvořák following him into the breach. And not just Dvořák either, there were others of course, all throughout the Wehrmacht and the Abwehr, civilians and enlisted men alike. There would have to be, one didn't assassinate an emperor without help. "Is there something the matter Ian?" Stefen turned to the younger boy to snap in exasperation and Tony winced. . I’m so sorry.” He murmured over and over and over again. When he squeezed her tight and pressed a firm kiss to the side of her brow and said, “It’s going to be okay darlin’. You’re strong,” she believed him. He started with the barn. A good look through it told him someone had indeed been there. There were footprints, blankets and a few scraps of discarded bandages buried in the hay in the goat pen near the corner. The straw was pressed down in the farthest corner in a shape too big for the old goat who bleated loudly at Bucky’s intrusion and kept sniffing around at his hands like the horse he’d had as a boy. As the cars made the short trek from the inn to the prison Dvorak contemplated his options. A living man might have fretted over Schmidt’s ominous words. But Dvorak was dead and unconcerned with how it happened, only that before it did, he struck one final blow against the regime. A fatal blow, though they may not recognize it as such now. A brief conversation was held before one figure separated from the others and hurried back aboard the ship, leaving the woman with the two others (yes it was two now, he could see them better now that they were coming back toward the lamps). And it was two children he noted as they passed by his window. A gangly boy in a cap and a skinny girl with unwashed brown hair in tangles. Sneak in. Sneak out. Like a whisper. Like a god damn apology. All to rescue a handful of innocent men. And then what? What about all the others? , here in the haven he’d built for himself, with the family he’d built to replace the one he and Bucky had once had together. If he could somehow attain the man’s loyalty and get him to adhere to some semblance of sense, Steve knew that there was a chance the children might come out of this unscathed. It was something to believe in

<|output|> <|example|> the curious old woman and shoot Tony a look and the monk just smiled winsomely back. Susann’s eyes looked Tony up and down with amusement. There was a clever gleam in her blue eyes as she murmured, “A monk. I suppose it <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> You’re strong,” she believed him <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> I suppose it Natacha was a leader like him in the Young Maidens and looked incredibly grown up in her uniform, her red hair bright in the late summer sun <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Sneak out <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> There were footprints, blankets and a few scraps of discarded bandages buried in the hay in the goat pen near the corner <|indexes|> 4 4 |

<|text|> surely, a reason to keep fighting. The silence kept pressing in, that water flooding in his ears and covering his head, sucking him down down down into the black. Steve barley felt the back of the chair hit his legs as he collapsed into it. Everything in him was falling apart, separating into jagged pieces, and yet he was numb to it. Numb to everything because his family wasn’t there, and he was… nothing. Prince Loki met them at the door, nodding to the attendant who quickly took his leave and shut the door softly behind him. “Here, James let’s get you dressed.” Tony offered gently, despite agreeing with Natacha that this little production of his was beyond ridiculous. It was not a battle he wished to have this morning, so if James needed to pretend like he didn’t know how to put his pants on then Tony was willing to indulge him. But James was having none of it. Tony had never forgiven him for that. Not the preventing him from throwing away his life on a forgotten battlefield thing. Tony would never forgive Hughard for taking away his home. “Better be quick about it Stark. We need to get the kids fed and dressed if they’re going to have enough time for lessons before brunch. Stevie wants them to make a good impression.” He had his suspicions, but he didn’t like not knowing for sure. He wasn’t used to not being able to predict Stefen. Even at his most stupid and stubborn Bucky could always predict Steve, read him like a damn book, but Stark was an unknown variable who had already proven adept at getting Steve to react in ways that Bucky would not have put his money on. “Forget it Tony. I’ve already taken care of it so that they won’t bother you again. I really do not understand you at all Stark. You’re the one always urging us to go!” Stefen sat up suddenly with a growl and Tony quickly slid off him to avoid being toppled to the floor. Ian's gaze moved to his father, the other person in the crowded room he found himself watching closely. He wasn't the only one either. Baroness Schrader had barely let him out of her sight. Probably so she could stop him from making a scene when either he or Natacha inevitably slipped out of his line of sight. It was too easy to feel a boy again, standing in his father’s nobler shadow, desperately trying to live up to an impossible ideal even as he was reminded that he did not deserve second chances any more than he had deserved the first one; that the day he had first drawn breath was a blight in the grand order of somebody elses perfect world. There was a singular comfort to be found in forging metal: in the reverberation of each strike through muscle and bone, in the singe of spark and flame against hair and skin. Proof that even the hardest of materials could be persuaded to reformation given the right minded hands. There in his workshop, Tony Stark’s hands had

<|output|> <|example|> surely, a reason to keep fighting. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Baroness Schrader had barely let him out of her sight <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> He wasn’t used to not being able to predict Stefen <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> But James was having none of it <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Everything in him was falling apart, separating into jagged pieces, and yet he was numb to it <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Tony had never forgiven him for that <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> He wasn’t used to not being able to predict Stefen <|indexes|> 5 |

<|text|> always been right and his mind sound, even if nothing else about him ever had been. Susann’s eyes danced with quiet amusement at his reaction and next to him Tony coughed suspiciously into his hand. “Surely Jurgan, you appreciate the delicateness of the situation? Count Shrader just financed new headquarters for the entire 8 The thought of losing control of his mind like that in public had shame twisting up his insides, but worse was the thought of losing himself and hurting one of his children (again). “Susann, you look wonderful …” And she did, every inch of her Swedish heritage from her height to her fine blond hair presented at its best in the simple but elegant style Themen was so known for, but Steve stiffened, feeling the unmistakable poke of her stomach against his, and hastily stepped back as if he feared he’d burn her. “God you’re… congratulations!” “I’m fine,” he managed to bite out, the words stuck behind his teeth as he swallowed down a groan of pain. , in so many ways, ways that Steve had not even considered before he knew - god damn it, where was he?! Artur was beside himself chasing pigeons and then a stray cat napping on a step. Sara gasped and shrieked when the water fountain in the town square shot water straight into the air and droplets sprinkled their faces. The amount of times one of the bicycles Tony had repaired went crashing to the ground as its owner scuttled off to point out some benign object or wondrous new sight, had Tony in a constant state of cringing. "Only the people can speak Romany and your father speaks to us, though he speaks differently. Our family, we are Sinti. They are cousins to the Roma, but we are all Rom, all family. Bah, what am I saying this to you for? You don't have a clue what I'm talking about do you gadje-boy? " Pietro laughed unkindly and Péter glowered at him. “So what did you find?” he asked and Pavlok nodded, beginning with the first document in the folder and sliding it across the desk for Tony’s review as he spoke. ? But he flipped dutifully to the pages behind the velvet ribbon as Tony had indicated. For a moment, his eyes raked over the page, taking it in. It wasn’t goodbye. It wasn’t. It wasn’t. It – Stefen tore himself away, shoving Tony backward until he stumbled against the bed, his whole body aching like he'd been stabbed. “I’ve sent off an announcement for the papers. It’s done, and there is no sense in delaying. A winter wedding will be fun for all of us. We can be in Switzerland by spring.” “No doubt we have divine influence to thank for such a miracle. Did I hear correctly that you are teaching the children to sing?” he asked, eyes flicking to Herr Stark who tensed under the man’s scrutiny. “Herr Stark was it. No relation of course to the late Hughard Stark?” Tony removed the stiff stockings from Stefen’s feet. He began to rub gently at their soles, doing his best to

<|output|> <|example|> always been right and his mind sound, even if nothing else about him ever had been. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> ? But he flipped dutifully to the pages behind the velvet ribbon as Tony had indicated <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> It wasn’t <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “I’ve sent off an announcement for the papers <|indexes|> 2 |

<|text|> work out the tension in in the muscle. Thankfully his seizers had tapered off, but he still suffered muscle cramps after long periods of activity. The full day they’d had must have been agony, but he’d born every second of it with determined positivity for the children’s sake. He was such a noble idiot at times, and Tony loved that about him. Loved him so fiercely it angered him, that Stefen could think of himself as anything but good. Not perfect, but so heartbreakingly good. When Tony caught the corner of the captain's mouth tugging upward as if he might smile, he laughed under his breath. What a pair of geese they must appear. He had no doubt that Pepper and Willamina were spying from the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing Stevie?” Bucky asked as soon as they heard the faint sound of running water coming from the bedroom. His mind flittered back to the shops. Tony wouldn’t try running far with the little ones. He’d look for a place to hide. Many of the shops had apartments upstairs, attics, cellars… Steve took off like a shot. He looked up, catching Bucky’s eye across the space through the open doors and realized that the low vibration in his chest was humming, coming from him no less. Bucky winked at him and Steve let the tension in his shoulders slide away, returning to his task. “Do not play games.” Schmidt said slowly. Enunciating every syllable as if it were a knife slicing flesh. "There are clergymen imprisoned at the camp. Abbott Farkas has been working with the Vatican to see them released." he explained. “When I am alone, I sit and dream on the horizon but all the words are missing.” Tony began to recite from memory. “Yes, I know that even in a room full of sunlight, there can be no light if you are not with me. Open the windows, show everyone my heart. Close inside of me, the light that you brought from the street.” “It’s not been tried on you. Yet.” The man leaned toward him, his eyes glittering and his voice seeming to go softer with every spoken word until it was just above a whisper. Yet. Tony had never been tortured, didn’t know what it was like. Yet. As if he could see the fear in him the agent’s mouth curled into a smile. “I’ve broken stronger men than you, Tony Stark.” “Do you know what order these go in?” Peter asked, brown eyebrows arching as he considered the pages and Ian nodded slowly. He knew where every word went. Not in so many words, no, that wasn’t the important bit. I knew he’d been in combat and I could see that he was fatigued. I was a doctor. I treated wounds. Not all of a soldier’s wounds are visible. The wooden post he was tied to groaned in protest as the ropes pulled against it, and Steve had a fleeting moment to be glad there was enough give in the rope that he hadn’t jerked his arms out of socket falling over like that. But then he remembered the eyes,

<|output|> <|example|> work out the tension in in the muscle. Thankfully his seizers had tapered off, but he still suffered muscle cramps after long periods of activity. The full day they’d had must have been agony, but he’d born every second of it with determined positivity for the children’s sake. He was such a noble idiot at times, and Tony loved that about him. Loved him so fiercely it angered him, that Stefen could think of himself as anything but good. Not perfect, but so heartbreakingly good. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Not all of a soldier’s wounds are visible <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Bucky winked at him and Steve let the tension in his shoulders slide away, returning to his task <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> Abbott Farkas has been working with the Vatican to see them released <|indexes|> 2 2 <|example|> He was such a noble idiot at times, and Tony loved that about him <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> Open the windows, show everyone my heart <|indexes|> 4 <|example|> Yet <|indexes|> 5 5 <|example|> Tony had never been tortured, didn’t know what it was like <|indexes|> 6 |

<|text|> no doubt those of his captor, and all of his thoughts were consumed with impotent rage. It burned through his veins and into the back of his throat. Caught. He was caught, again. Steve bellowed, an aggrieved roar, his entire body trembling as he struggled to regain leverage and lunge at the threat. So close. He’d been so close. Rogers had turned the entire office of the Wehrmacht into a circus. That was the major source of Dvorak’s annoyance if he were honest. Why was it always Rogers?  HIs absence from his post along with his sudden disappearance from the public eye had not gone unnoticed, and the army was scrambling to either find an acceptable excuse or render the sort of swift punishments the Führer would expect in the face of such audacity. Rumors had spread about some sort of illness, but that cover grew thin as the days passed. "He was as skinny as a pole, nothing like now. He had this terrible accent. We all called him our Goulash Rat." “It’s for liabilities sake.” He announced suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “It wouldn’t do for Major Rogers to fall so ill under the Führer’s watch. The Reich looks out for its own.” Péter glared and opened his mouth but Charlotte's hand gripping his shoulder paused, and the baroness gave Bucky an irritated look. "Really James, violence is not the answer to everything." To Péter in a softer tone she suggested, "Your uncle has been making your father soup. It's the only thing he seems able to keep down." “No! I-that won’t be necessary!” Tony had been prepared for a great deal of things but he would not, could not answer to a whistle like some sort of trained canine. Steve nodded and abandoned his seat at the bar, striding through the semi-crowded room towards a secluded booth near the back. He’d chosen the location for the meeting carefully because he knew the exits as well as the man who ran the establishment. If Coulson was surprised by his taking charge he didn’t show it, taking the seat Steve and Bucky left open for him. It left him with his back to the doorway, and Steve was no highly trained secret agent but he thought the man had to know. Even so Coulson accepted it, his calm demeanor never wavering. Tony hummed sympathetically, the way one does, and Pavlok replaced his spectacles and took his seat. Sniffing his perky nose he opened a leather bound binder sitting prominently amidst the clutter of books and other nick-knacks and got straight to business with a professionalism that Tony had grown to admire in the short amount of time they’d been acquainted. He’d wonder how the boy had known how he liked to drink it, but that was Ian. Quiet and observant and so quick to take care of others.  Tony took a few hearty bites of a sandwich and swallowed before offering him a smile. The children giggled but did what they were told happily enough, even if Péter did depart with a roll of his eyes and a cheeky reply. Sometimes, even though Bucky had not been

<|output|> <|example|> no doubt those of his captor, and all of his thoughts were consumed with impotent rage. It burned through his veins and into the back of his throat. Caught. He was caught, again. Steve bellowed, an aggrieved roar, his entire body trembling as he struggled to regain leverage and lunge at the threat. So close. He’d been so close. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> He’d been so close <|indexes|> 0 0 <|example|> "He was as skinny as a pole, nothing like now <|indexes|> 1 1 <|example|> “It wouldn’t do for Major Rogers to fall so ill under the Führer’s watch <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> Steve bellowed, an aggrieved roar, his entire body trembling as he struggled to regain leverage and lunge at the threat <|indexes|> 3 3 |

<|text|> there to see it, he still dreamed of laying his mother down in her grave, her face peaceful finally in death, the silver gleam of her bridal coins twinkling out from beneath the dirt they shoveled over her. Tony lay there in the dirt, retching and heaving like a pregnant woman. He was splattered in blood and brains, but he wasn’t injured Bucky judged with a critical glance before turning back to the others. "You're actually going to let me in. I thought this place was off limits?" Tony commented as they reached the door and Farkas pinned him with his good eyes. "Not off limits, just did my best to keep it Stark free. A man needs to find his sanctuary somewhere." His thoughts scatted like kicked marbles as Tony cradled his face once more and pressed in close so that they were slotted together, breathing in each other’s air. He felt Tony shiver despite the hot heat seeping in from where his chest, arms and groin pressed against Steve. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe he was the one shivering and maybe it was his heat Tony was soaking up. Or maybe it was both, the chill deep in both their bones driving them close and closer together to share one continuous cycle of brightly burning heat. It was just proof wasn’t it? They were stronger together than apart. Bucky immediately released her wrists, his hands coming up to rub her back and cradle her neck, and Natacha blinked away a fresh surge of hot tears. He cared about her too much, that insidious voice inside whispered, practical as it pleased. If she wanted to, she could easily be free of him now. He'd armed her with a knife but he still held her close to his heart as if he hadn't. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want him to let go of her. still clinging to his fingertips; and easy, like drifting into a dream, he was in the parlor at their villa, the leathery palms of Jacob Yinsen’s hands cupping his as they guided to the correct keys, his mother humming quietly as she worked, the words occasionally bursting past her lips in her beautiful soprano. Tony sang them now from memory, eyes drifting slowly shut as he tried to cling to the memory of her voice, the smell of her perfume, the vibrations in her chest when she sang lullabies in the dark. "Were you aware Captain that he kept them locked in an attic like a pair of dogs, with no respite from the summer heat?" the monk asked coldly, eyes cutting into Steve. Maria gasped again and Steve wanted to flinch. He held fast, not let his eyes fall from Stark. “Some women just have no taste.” Pike cackled from the corner and Bucky gave him the finger as Parodi laughed. Stefen jerked violently with a deep groan, but Bucky was there, holding him down, and for the second time now Tony found himself glad. “Why didn’t you eat this morning?” she returned with a bossy arch of one brow, and it

<|output|> <|example|> there to see it, he still dreamed of laying his mother down in her grave, her face peaceful finally in death, the silver gleam of her bridal coins twinkling out from beneath the dirt they shoveled over her. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> Stefen jerked violently with a deep groan, but Bucky was there, holding him down, and for the second time now Tony found himself glad <|indexes|> 0 |

<|text|> was the miracle of them (his children) that even with his head cracked and his heart bleeding openly in his chest, she made him smile. “It’s alright,” Steve assured the trembling man in Polish, and the trembling fellow’s eyes snapped away from Captain Altera and back to Steve. “You’re sure it was this man you saw, walking away from the pub?” going to crash! He gulped a deep breath and kicked off with one leg, sending the sled down the slope. Stefen’s mouth surged against his, wicked tongue plying low moans out of Tony’s mouth with insistence as he urged his knees apart with a firm hand and settled himself between Tony’s legs, pressing them chest to chest until Tony could feel the hard press of Stefen’s cock again, rubbing against where he was so desperate for friction. “Ah, yes, I thought that might surprise you. Yes, you’re to leave in forty-six hours precisely and report to Brigade Leader Kessmeyer -” Right up until the first war, Hill House had been a gem in the crown of high society; but since the Stark’s deaths and the dissolution of the Austrian state in Pola, the villa had fallen into neglect. “Vienna.” Bucky turned to look at him, waiting. After a moment Steve looked up, brow furrowed in confusion. It was a second or two more before he seemed to catch on to Bucky’s meaning and his mouth tightened. “What?” he groused through tight lips as they moved to the steps, Jan’s skirts swirling about his legs as she turned. Cameron turned and quickly scurried down the stairs, Tony following him. It was clear that Hammer had been hard at work, polishing every surface until it shown and filling the hall with those damn red banners. “Can we compromise? Pack them so that if we do anything fun you’ll have the option to join in instead of having to sit on the sidelines worried about getting dirty?” Natacha crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest and made to open her mouth but Tony beat her to the punch. “And the first opportunity we get we’ll go shopping for something a little less resembling drapery.” Globocnik, true to form, had launched into a passionate tirade against political Catholicism and a plea for the necessary subjugation of the church. “You mean the rich and ridiculous?” Tony drawled, shifting once more so that he could brace his elbows against the couch and look down at Stefen who was chuckling at him. Even though he disliked the Osbornes, Steve had warmed to the idea of inviting their neighbors and the families of the staff to celebrate Péter’s fifteenth birthday. Charlotte had taken the bull by the horns and sold him on the necessity of inviting Péter’s former HJ troop, as well as the Mayor and a few other important city officials. It meant that the staff could not join the party the way they would have when Péter was little. Stevie was sore about that but there wasn’t anything either of them could do. "What? Angry that you presumed I would be willing to be responsible for the lives of seven

<|output|> <|example|> was the miracle of them (his children) that even with his head cracked and his heart bleeding openly in his chest, she made him smile. <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 |

<|output|> <|example|> After a moment Steve looked up, brow furrowed in confusion <|indexes|> 0 0 0 0 0 0 <|example|> Charlotte had taken the bull by the horns and sold him on the necessity of inviting Péter’s former HJ troop, as well as the Mayor and a few other important city officials <|indexes|> 1 <|example|> ” Globocnik, true to form, had launched into a passionate tirade against political Catholicism and a plea for the necessary subjugation of the church <|indexes|> 2 <|example|> “And the first opportunity we get we’ll go shopping for something a little less resembling drapery <|indexes|> 3 <|example|> It was clear that Hammer had been hard at work, polishing every surface until it shown and filling the hall with those damn red banners <|indexes|> 4 4 <|example|> It was clear that Hammer had been hard at work, polishing every surface until it shown and filling the hall with those damn red banners <|indexes|> 5 |