Until this story, he was the star of two short novels, A Study in Scarlet (1887) and The Sign of the Four (1890), and known to a small group of readers. After the short stories began to appear in The Strand, he became one of the most famous fictional characters in the history of literature.
“I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own.” As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again. The case will require Holmes not only to save his client’s life but to solve the mystery of how her sister died two years ago.
Like many of the Sherlock Holmes stories, the British Empire lurks in the background (Dr Boycott had met the girls’ mother out in India, and has a menagerie of exotic animals from that country), and in this connection, the story also reveals a debt to one of the first detective novels, Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone. The story concerns a missing racehorse and sees Holmes donning his famous deerstalker to investigate.
I put the question, with a hint that it was my companion’s modesty which made him acknowledge his brother as his superior. The mystery itself revolves around a Greek interpreter named Mr Meals, who is engaged in a rather cloak-and-dagger way to translate for someone who is being held captive by some sinister criminals.
Its code-themed story probably inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Gold-Bug’, ‘The Dancing Men’ is one of Holmes’s greatest code-breaking triumphs. Mr. Hilton Cubist of Riding Thorpe Manor in Norfolk, and husband to a nervous wife, tells Holmes a series of stick figures have started to appear chalked up on the window-sill of the house.
I was so thrilled to interview them, and like any great friendship and collaboration, I wondered how it all began. (LAURIE R. KING) It feels like we’ve known each other forever, but I think we must have met in person at one of the Left Coast Crime conferences in the early ‘ought.
People like us tend to set up our mutual admiration societies through conferences, which has made 2020 something of a holding pattern, when it comes to new friends…. I try to write some new Comedian scholarship every year, and I’m quite deeply involved with the literary society, the Baker Street Irregulars, so I’d say it’s a big part of my life.
HPR : How has your personal “connection” with Sherlock Holmes and his world changed over the years? (ARK) When I first started writing my own series, which joins Holmes up with a young apprentice, Mary Russell, I was looking mostly at her world.
Sherlock Holmes has captivated readers for more than a century, simultaneously inspiring countless numbers of writers. Doyle’s great detective’s genius, mastery, and heroism became the standard by which other creators measured their creations.
Critically acclaimed writers all bound together in admiration and affection for the original stories. This latest collection spans from Victorian England to the modern day Jersey shore and features characters who are inspired, admire, or emulate Holmes.
Kirk us reviews said that in introducing this new collection of Shylockian inspired stories, “the editors indicate the principal originality of this one: The authors are all “not previously known to be friends of Holmes.” This promise is paid off in spades,” and that all the authors have “updated or deconstruct Holmes in ingenious ways.” The echoing calls of carrion crows reverberate off the scorched earth left desolate by the ravages of an east wind.
These two brain cases had a serial killing younger sister named after the east wind?! Series creators Steve Moat and Mark Gates have implied this was the absolute finale and are now developing other projects.
This is a poignant, pull-no-punches tale in which Sherlock wrestles with a terminal illness with the ever-faithful Watson by his side. It will also give you an excuse to shed those tears you’ve been holding back after watching that last BBC episode. Except this time, you’ll feel like they were honestly earned.
Emily Watson stands up for a bullied Tristan and the kids’ friendship starts. Sherlock visits the Watson flat to pick up Tristan, meets John and the adult romance ignites.
When John’s marriage makes Molly crave a family of her own, she opts to have a baby through IVF. As a member of the police force, Anderson is hardly under suspicion and, with the reticence of many sexual assault survivors, Sherlock refuses to name his attacker.
All of which leads to Anderson doubling down on his hate for the consulting detective, taunting him and virtually stalking him as Sherlock, still suffering PTSD, tries to carry on. Another offering from Mad Lori (known as Mad_Lori on Archive of Our Own), this recasting of the Holmes-Watson relationship as a tinsel town tale deserves mention as well.
Sherlock is a faded Academy Award-winning actor trying to regain his luster. They meet as leads on the set of a gay romance that threatens to become reality as they struggle to salvage their careers.
With more than 6,000 bookmarks, 13,000+ kudos, and over half a million hits, this story is clearly one of the most popular and beloved in Sherlock fan fiction. This one-shot fanfic is a witty exercise in cold smolder between a properly warm Watson and a practically hypothermia Holmes.
When their building’s heat goes during a blizzard, John finds Sherlock working on cold cases and oblivious to his dangerously chilled state. It’s perhaps the height of a fanfic author’s achievement when a story they create is so rich and compelling that it becomes a universe of its own.
A seamless melding of character and plot, this Sherlock fanfic perfectly captures the voice and tone of the BBC series. The author actually took the time to construct an intriguing mystery that would be right at home in the episode lineup.
That Rosie coos when he’s back from work and Sherlock drops her into John’s arms. That in the morning it’s reversed, and she babbles happily when John places her into his.
(And if you didn’t love it, there are some wonderful pilot!verse blogs. John remembered them stumbling up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock bustling around the kitchen preparing yet more drinks.
When he appeared again in the door from the kitchen to the sitting room, John recalled the way he had felt- awed. Sherlock’s curls were disheveled from his bar fight, and his cheeks had a high and rosy blush from drinking so much alcohol.
He wore a look of dopey happiness, and he swayed slightly to and fro like he was standing on the deck of a boat. Striding across the room in his long coat, he had kneeled down next to John, handed him his drink, and kissed him.
As unpredictable as a lightning storm, Sherlock had giggled, wiped his mouth and sat down in his chair like nothing was wrong. That is, until a few months after, when John had been thinking the night over, and the view of Sherlock’s gently closed eyes and long, sloping nose had suddenly flashed through his thoughts.
Some cheeky bastard had tacked a sprig of mistletoe over their doorway where it couldn’t be avoided. Sherlock’s face went hot, couldn’t seem to form words.
John dropped his bag and wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s lean frame, one hand on the back of his neck, the other at the curve of his waist. John’s arms tightened into a fierce hug, and Sherlock was on the verge of cracking wide open, his heart displayed, everything he felt for this man there for all to see.
Then John turned his head, and pressed a single, slow kiss to Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. “Don’t worry,” John whispered, his voice pitched low.
Sherlock’s watched in a daze as John picked up his bag and left. His head swam with the heart-pounding intimacy of the moment, his cheek burning with the memory of John’s lips.
He stared at the spot where John had stood, silent, trying to process, when a thought occurred to him: Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall with a pained groan.
It’s a nice laugh, long and low, his eyes crinkling at the corners. We may be the worst people qualified to determine what makes Christmas significant apart from the religious celebration associated.
You could make it a blog post: Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Missing Christmas Spirit.” John cast him a dark glare, pitching another bulb into the bin and slotting a new one in its place.
‘Yesterday, after you set fire to the jumper my mother knitted for me.’ John ramped up the tone of accusation. Sherlock was abysmal at empathy, but if you pushed hard enough, it was still possible to send him on a very minor guilt trip.
Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes took in the stately majesty of the Christmas tree, which was already filling the flat with the fresh scent of pine. It had been carefully placed a safe distance from the fire, and while John felt marginally bad for sacrificing a living tree for the sake of Christmas, he didn’t feel contrite enough to go out and buy something eco-friendly and made of plastic.
'I don’t see the point,’ Sherlock muttered, reluctantly getting to his feet and accepting a bundle of fairy-lights from John. 'It’s tradition.’ John looped a strand around Sherlock’s neck, trying to stop the string from getting tangled as he slotted in the plug and grinned in satisfaction when they lit up beautifully.
Sherlock’s skin was cast in gemstone hues: blues and reds and greens all adding festive cheer to his highly skeptical expression. 'John, dear, you’re meant to be decorating the tree, not Sherlock, ’ Mrs Hudson pointed out as she bustled in with a tea tray, some mince pies, and a considerable amount of sherry in a bottle.
Books, scarves, a new alarm clock for his bedroom when his old one started to get fussy around the snooze button. Last year he’d gotten him a pass to an underground, top secret shooting range, so he could practice with his gun and a couple of other firearms, in exchange for five solid favors for Mycroft.
John had taught Sherlock how to stand and shoot, correcting his stance with a hand on his shoulder and on his hip, and the silence in the empty shooting range had been deafening, and three days later John had gone to Sherlock’s parents’ house and pretended to forgive his wife. This will be the first Christmas since John had kissed Sherlock months ago, so gentle and cautious and hopeful, in the rain outside 221B, the day he’d come home for good.
And Sherlock stands there, in the middle of a Christmas market as John hums along to Silent Night, John’s hand warm in his with fingertips a little gritty from the cinnamon-sugar doused churros they’d shared, and thinks, oh, that’s–that’s an idea, isn’t it? It’s blazing in…” He trails off as his eyes take in the state of the flat, dawning confusion on his face.
Sherlock swallows and works up his courage with a deep breath. But John looks warmly, softly beautiful in the flickering firelight, and sod the dinner, just sod it all, and he takes John by the hand and leads him to his chair.
Condition of what?” A little curl of suspicion is starting to form on John’s face, and he looks for a moment like he can’t decide whether to laugh or make a run for it. “Kiss me again,” Sherlock demands, because he’s out of words for the first time in his life and his chest is tight, and he’s ready to crawl out of his skin with anticipation.
Sherlock closes his eyes, heart hammering in his ears and waits, waits, barely breathing until John finally kisses him softly, achingly slowly, his other hand sliding around the back of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair. Hello,” Sherlock slurs up to him with the most agonizingly exquisite smile, his voice lazy and beautifully thick as he miraculously achieves what the doctor has asked, “You were correct, John, Christmas has come early.
“You,” John says with a dismaying twist of his own lips as he carefully brushes his fingertips against the inside of Sherlock’s white wrist, as he almost had done so many times before, “are higher than bloody a kite right now.” “You love me and I have an internal organ of yours.” Sherlock says up to him as if it’s the most groundbreaking deduction of his life, his eyes practically ablaze with very heavy painkillers, “It’s Christmas.