Artwork: Color Study

Color studies:

Currently working on a color study of Jeremy Brett, from a still of "The Greek Interpreter".

Finished 6/29

Sherlock Holmes and the Curious Question of Peter Knife

Here's a canon shortie for you, darlings.  I woke up this morning with this strange story in my head, so I wrote it down.

Sherlock Holmes and The Curious Question of Peter Knife, Blackfoot Tracker

Illustration of canon Holmes, and Chief Mountain, Blackfoot

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson engage in an epic after-breakfast conversation in the 221B drawing-room, that threatens to make John Watson's eyebrows rise higher than they normally do while reading Bocaccio's 'Decameron' during the tales of the second day.

Work Text:

After my friend Holmes had his adventures in Tibet during that Great Hiatus, and after his defeat of Moriarty, he often subscribed to such outlandish notions of identity that I would have to take pause in my studies and writings to digest these odd new workings of his inner mind. This, as we all know, was never at rest.

Today, he insisted that he not only believed in reincarnation, but that he could positively recall who he was in his previous life. He maintained that he was no respectable doctor or hunter upon the Downs of Her Majesty’s Britain, but a Red Indian, of all things. Not only did he openly and passionately subscribe to notions outside Christianity, but well outside the realm of Science, and I was laughing, about to gently chide him in this manner.

“I was not the man you see before you,” said Holmes, pacing the drawing-room of Baker Street like a great panther in a zoo enclosure. “I was a red Indian man of the Western Blackfoot tribe. But not just any man,” he went on proudly. “I was a tracker.” His chest puffed out and he smiled, his briar pipe chuffing merrily. “My name was Peter Knife. And aside from the very long hair which I wore in a magnificent braid down the center of my back, I looked almost exactly like the man standing before you now.”

I laughed heartily, but he gave me a look of such doleful intensity that I had to clear my throat and engage him to carry on, which he did with gusto. “I could tell if the lightest deer had passed through the bracken up to a month previously.” he said. “By the position of the leaves on the ground, the small ticks upon the branches, the smell of the American lynx that had marked the adjacent tree.” My eyebrows rose in surprise at such incredible detail. “I was so good at what I did that I was able to hunt for two teepees, and uphold two wives!”

I was so shocked at this exhortation that I very nearly lost control of my own pipe, and gazed upon him with the kind of incredulity reserved for an uncanny madman. I knew that Holmes was odd, but not mad; however his blithe acceptance of married existence was not only a shock, but to admit that he practiced bigamy in a previous life, after knowing his monklike qualities for nearly a decade here in London, I have to say that I laughed again twice as hard- and this time for at least a full minute. This was a side of Holmes I had never witnessed before, and as I settled down to a teary-eyed chortle, he looked at me from the corners of his eyes thoughtfully, with his arms casually crossed, eyebrows raised, and waited for me to finish with the ghost of a smile upon his keen features and thin lips.

I could not remain silent while listening to this incredible and seriously delivered insistence by my friend any longer. “Two wives.” I remarked breathlessly. “Two wives! So you were both a savage and bigamist! Tell me, why do I see none of this side of you now?” I chided him.

“I was not a savage, Watson.” he chuffed, somewhat incensed at the notion. “I wore my beautiful deerskins and my magnificent beaded breastplate with as much cleanliness and pride as I do my waistcoat. I simply used bear fat rendered with sage to coif my lovely braid instead of lime pomade as I do now.” He raised his chin proudly. “And two wives in a previous life is why you do not see me with one now. Have you any idea how difficult it is to uphold two households and the nightly duties of a husband to two families and two insatiably fecund women?”

I nearly choked on my pipe a second time and erupted heartily a third time, for each time I heard Holmes say such things as I had never before heard from the man, I would laugh harder. Holmes knew that my preference for fairylike petiteness and blonde beauty in women was nearly legendary, so to hear such amazing words from this man indicating his very preference in women was nearly more than I could stand with a sober demeanour. For not even I, after a decade, could suspect that he had any preference in women at all. This tale had the hopes of becoming more lurid than Boccacio’s Decameron, which in coming fully and soberly from my very sincere friend in all earnestness, would create a legendary exchange such that the joyful memories of old age would constantly refresh and brighten my eyes until my death.

Fortunately, I was most certainly not disappointed. “Fecund!” I nearly shouted with laughter. “So you are telling me that you liked women, practiced bigamy, and preferred them plump. Is that,” I laughed, “what you are telling me!”

“Quite.” said Holmes. “Certainly, isn’t a plump woman going to remain warm during the frightful winters of the Plains and mountains of western America?” he asked. “Wouldn’t a child remain warm in her belly? Yes, I was the sleek cat of the forest, but proud, thick women who moved as gracefully as the great buffalo and with chests the breadth of their flanks, would make my heart nearly skip a beat at the thought of their encompassing warmth and comfort.” His bright eyes regarded me again, staring at him in shock, and this time he smiled broadly. “You have yet to experience such joys in your preference for dollies in lace. But I assure you from the bottom of my Bohemian soul that the great and noble savage knows where real comfort is to be found, although I might have been too keen in seeking to repeat the experience twice.” This time, my chortling remained at an incredulous constant, the Times long having been folded and slapped on my knee several times in my exultations of laughter.

Holmes’ face became serious, however, and he gained a faraway look in his deep gray eyes that gave his gaze a wistful countenance. “I remember how they cried when I died of the white man’s disease.” His lecture took a sober turn. “It was a strange funeral.” He went on. “I was wrapped tightly like they do their babies, lovingly plaited by both aging lovelies and my five children, in tightly woven grass and vine from neck to feet as if my body were the beloved treasure of a grandmother’s basket. I watched my own burial and took such comfort in the loving cries of my entire tribe.” His tone was faraway and it sang in a high and sustained note such that I nearly imagined the scents of cedar smoke and sage, and imagined his great thin body stretched out upon a shallow platform aloft a great grassy hill among many relatives similarly fed to the carrion birds in such strange grandeur.

Holmes breathed deeply and looked away from gazing out the window. “Mighty England hasn’t the depth of character for such compassion. The understandings of right and wrong of the free savages may seem uncharacteristically simple for such an exultatious mind as my own, and I may represent all those pedantic virtues over which Britain’s international infamy among nations holds sway,” sighed Holmes in an acidic tone, “but my simplistic morality and notion of decency is what gives me power as a man, Watson. All else is detail in knowledge for which my mind utterly hungers, but shades of gray in morality, most certainly not.” He went back to gazing down at the mad to and fro of Baker Street outside the window.

“Yes, Holmes, but two plump wives.” I laughed, citing our well worn and respectable British codes of monogamy which insisted that women be tackled one at a time at the very most. "You yourself embody so many moral shades of gray if the definitions of our world are anything to go by."

“Certainly not. My situation was not immoral if they both agreed to the arrangement. They most definitely didn’t want me in their hair all the time during the freezing months, trying to make conversation out of such wintry boredom. I was always a nightmare while bored, when not attempting to pull her under a pile of buffalo skins to pass the time. So you see me now, not bothering with the attempt this time around.”

I could not resist the opportunity to tease him just this little bit. “But surely, Holmes, you must crave such company at the loneliest of times. Surely. Even for a fecund, Bohemian woman?” the smile played at my face.

“Indeed.” admitted Holmes. My eyebrows raised into my very hairline at such open admission. “But I have this work to uphold, to the chagrin of my empty bed. The shallow jibings of so many men such as yourself in preference for all the social norms I naturally despise, is too much for a sincere and earnest heart to endure. I uphold my savage morality in all earnestness in exchange, and allow what the world thinks is my cold and mechanical heart to dream for me, when I know the world isn’t looking.”

This baffling statement left me silent.

He looked over at me with a fire lighting his eyes. “…And my morality is as simple, and as savage, as it gets.” he went back to the mixture in his pipe, huffing it as deeply in quiet countenance and hawklike profile as I ever saw him do, and for that moment, his rod-straight figure was as peaceful and majestic in the thin, silvery winter light of England as those great mountains in western America.

Sir Doyle, left, and Spopee, Blackfoot, right

Operation Canon Holmes

Operation Canon Holmes is a success. 

The purpose of this project was to incorporate Strand Magazine illustrator Sidney Paget's idea of Holmes, and evolve it from basically a fashion magazine cartoon to the actual closest approximation of the Holmes in Arthur Conan Doyle's head.

In the first story of the canon, A Study In Scarlet, Doyle describes him thus: "His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. ...he was so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing...and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination."

My process was to take the most detailed picture of Holmes from Sidney Paget's illustrative work (difficult to find one, admittedly) and work with it, adding enough detail to get at least a comic book approximation of Holmes, in the first pencil study.

Then, using an actor model whose placement of facial features and skeletal frame approximated the closest description of Holmes, in this case Adrian Brody, I used his basic facial shape and added/altered the features which Conan Doyle described in his literature.

Myth busted #1: Sherlock was NOT SEXY. He was an egghead with very odd looking features. Conan Doyle did reiterate later on in life that Holmes was anything but handsome; rather, he was *striking*. Doyle was apathetic to the more romantic depictions of Holmes in theatre.

So here's my as-realistic-as-possible reconstruction of Doyle's canon Holmes, aged between 35 and 45. Ish. Sidney Paget illustration for comparison.

Fig 1: Sidney Paget's original illustration:

Fig.2: My take on the Paget illustration as study 1, and the larger more realistic study 2.

Fig.3: Study 2.

Still Life With John Watson

Tonight's pencil study is of the John Watson that occupies my head canon.  I'm happy with this, so the itch to draw gets itchier.

His face is entirely from my head, however I might have borrowed Glen Hansard's eyes and then changed those too.

"Still Life With John Watson", props, Strand Magazine, graphite on Bristol. by A.R. Carter

Pencil study of Holmes

Tonight is a night for a pencil study of Holmes.  Still life with drawing and canon props.

Happy Birthday, Arthur Conan Doyle!

Happy Birthday, Arthur Conan Doyle. And, all of ten minutes ago, I just got my 1892 first edition of the Strand magazine in the mail with the Adventure of Silver Blaze. Hooray!!!

"What's this?" sniffs Mollie.

"Oh, just the 1892 Strand first edition of Sherlock Holmes I found for $39 on ebay, arriving randomly in the mail on Arthur Conan Doyle's birthday." says I.

"Oh", says Mollie, and promptly goes back to sleep.

Today there have been a lot of conversations in my facebook feed about rights, the police state, and the culture of incarceration here in the US. First of all, I have my own personal experience hauling ass on concentrated evil, in a state where the political agendas of criminals easily trump human rights. This was thanks to a one-sided peace agreement and the ability of these criminals to woo the US government's cooperation in squashing and silencing me...but not for long. So I have experience fighting conspiracies that go to the very top, which is why I empathize with the loneliness of his character. But just as importantly, the very issue of police state affrontery to the workings of conscience is the very reason why I adore Conan Doyle's most beloved character twice as much.

The biggest cultural change I've noticed between the OLD Doyle canon Sherlock Holmes and the new BBC series, is that the OLD Sherlock had a considerably frosty (and sometimes hostile) relationship with DI Lestrade and Scotland Yard. This was for very good reason. Canon Sherlock had a fire lit under him especially to exonerate the wrongly accused, and bring actual criminals to justice. There were times Scotland Yard owed him everything, but also times they absolutely hated his guts, because more than anything they wanted a public image as being those who caught criminals, and in the canon that image was more important to them, than whether or not someone was actually guilty. And Sherlock despised it.

Arthur Conan Doyle literally invented the science of forensics in his stories to exonerate the innocent during an age when Britain was still executing people in prisons. He considered exoneration in many ways to be morally superior in cause to catching the guilty, and was one of his deepest inspirations in creating such a heroic character. Yes Sherlock is an eccentric jerk, but you really can't help but adore the fiery conscience of his creator, reflected in his character.

The challenge to such a one-sided system is absolutely necessary today, but in the new Sherlock, Lestrade is cast more as a compatriot and chum, and Sherlock the one who saves Scotland Yard's reputation.

But acquiring justice, whether or not the science of forensics is massively improved since the 1890s, is still a very bitter battle today being waged on citizenry by corporate quotas for prison beds, police forces not being held accountable, juries not being fully informed, and the sky high price of adequate representation not being made affordable to the poor and accused.

My own war of attrition with Sinn Fein/IRA from 2011-2013 utterly reflected Sherlock's struggle with the tendrilled conspiracy of sly operatives that was the mastermind of Moriarty, whether or not the theories of his invention of Moriarty are true. The conspiracy was desperately real for me, unfortunately. But the everyday fight he waged as a character was fired not only by his desire to catch predators, but more importantly, to make sure that good people weren't sent to the scaffold in the flashpoint mob mentality that possessed the general populace in those days... AND today in many respects.

Arthur Conan Doyle made an entreaty to our own conscience by asking us not just to see, but to observe. THAT canon is never more necessary than now, because we are all too willing en masse, on all sides, to believe in things that aren't true, and follow clues that aren't there, in the name of causes that aren't relevant, rather than listen in silence to the deepest instincts of our own conscience, and trust in our intellect in order to follow the right path to the facts that matter.

The Secret of Sherlock Holmes Restoration Project

The Secret of Sherlock Holmes, co-written by Jeremy Paul and Jeremy Brett, ran in London's West End from 1988-1989, and starred Brett and his longtime co-star Edward Hardwicke. The only recording of this performance was made by Brett's close friends Woods and Pritchard, and was an ambient tape recording. Due to the breakdown of tape over time, and before the advent of mp3 conversion, it was very muddled and difficult to listen to. Here I have restored it as much as possible with noise reduction software, and now the wonderful performances of Brett and Hardwicke are much clearer and more discernible.

 I downloaded Goldwave 6 Beta version to do this edit, I have to say it's an AMAZING program, even if very very complex like Photoshop or AutoCAD. I'm looking forward to learning more about how to use it and will probably be tweaking and reloading these tracks later on.  

Here is the link to the one page on the Internet that apparently seems to host Linda Pritchard's rare recordings of Jeremy Brett: http://www.jeremybrett.info/st_holmes.html

If you listen to them you will hear a constant tape hum and hiss that really muddies the sound, and since this is the only recording of this show with no video of it elsewhere, the run of this performance and the love put into it, as well as the late Jeremy Brett's precious contributions to the genre, makes it utterly deserve restoration.

So here are Acts 1 and 2 on SoundCloud.   As I said I will keep tweaking these restorations, especially Act 2, to try and get as close to CD quality as I possibly can.  However, these are now far clearer and much more of a listening pleasure for the various subtleties and asides shared by Holmes.

https://soundcloud.com/alison-carter/the-secret-of-sherlock-holmes-act-1

https://soundcloud.com/alison-carter/the-secret-of-sherlock-holmes-act-2

Enjoy!

Instant Holmes!

A BRILLIANT FIND!

I have just found an almost EXACT wardrobe copy of Jeremy Brett's Holmes that you can purchase online.  Down to the very type of hat he wore.  Just for a reference:

This is Jeremy Brett's Holmes in his Homburg hat.  Isn't it lovely?

Here's his later season wardrobe.

And, courtesy of Gentleman's Emporium, here is the entire ensemble called "Highland", down to the very necktie he wears!  The Highland frock coat is as long as his on the show...PERFECT!  Lapel vest, PERFECT! Club collar shirt and crossover tie: PERFECT! 

HAH!

And here's the link: http://www.gentlemansemporium.com/store/000639.php

And here's the Homburg:

Link: http://www.gentlemansemporium.com/store/004094.php

Jeremy's Holmes has a silver crook handled walking cane...

And here it is on Ebay:

http://www.ebay.com/itm/GENTS-SILVER-CROOK-HANDLE-WALKING-STICK-CANE-/290945628278?pt=UK_Antiques_Woodenware_RL&hash=item43bdb5f876

You're welcome, cosplayers.  You really COULD NOT find an easier instant costume to assemble.

Chapter 6: A Scumbag Symphony (The Cailleach of Caerdydd Continued)

                When Sherlock was about to fight, time slowed down for him.  His mind could see all the weak spots of his opponents in slow motion, and the entire universe for him was suddenly choreographed in a sublime waltz that Johann Strauss could not best.  Even the surrounding breezes slowed, and he could detect every beat of the wings of the bees surrounding him in the woodbine undergrowth behind him.  

                The grasses bent slowly down in the sun at his feet, and the bead of sweat on John’s brow reflected the sparkle of the sun’s orb.  A concerto of tension pulsated in John’s jawline, and in the veins of his hands.  In this moment, breathing in was like drinking a draught of light, and the surge of adrenalin seized his lower back in electric ecstasy.

                The line of freckled ginger and craggy, tan warriors facing him down were in flannel shirts, tees and Levis.  They wore great leather work boots spattered with dust, and were sweating as well, though obviously more from the heat than from fear, as they did not know who they were confronting.

                Sherlock spoke slowly to disarm their attack, hands at his sides, favouring one leg in a casual stance.  “Gentlemen.  To whom do I owe the visit?” he asked quietly, staring straight into the older man who stood in front of them, a full four inches taller than the tallest in their lineup, the shortest of whom was five foot nine.

                “Well, that’s depending on who’s getting’ the favours, now.” said the tall mountain quietly.  “I hear you fairies are lookin’ for fairies.”  The group tittered simultaneously, and Sherlock glanced around, sizing up each one.

                Sherlock’s heightened senses suddenly felt a radiance of heat two feet from him, knowing that John’s rage had been ignited in the otherwise perfectly still statue beside him.  He didn’t dare look in John’s eyes.  He knew they had become black pools of potential obliteration as they stared down the lineup before them.

                “We are sportsmen directed to a shooting range on a friend’s property not far from here.  Do you know of any fairies in the area?  They’re not game, but they might make for good practice.”  Sherlock’s smirk was showing in his voice.  He also was communicating that an exchange of blows could very well lead to bullets, which made two of the group balk enough to look over at their boss, who did not break his gaze. 

                “You know what I’m gettin’ at, lads.  You know very well.  You’re that fairy hat detective from London with your wee pig, and the museum sent you looking for a statue we want.”

                “Statue…statue…doesn’t ring a bell.  Unless it’s Michelangelo, of course.  Fairies love Michelangelo.”  Sherlock narrowed his eyes and smiled.  “And don’t call John a pig.  I don’t think he likes it, and getting him worked up isn’t a very good idea.” He looked over at John, who was ready to tread the ground like a bull in Seville, nostrils flaring a direct line to the magma chamber of Mount Vesuvius.  Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned his head slowly back to the leader.  

                “Nope, not a good idea at all.”  Sherlock smiled sweetly, his hands casually clasped behind his back.  “But enough with niceties.” he said.  “We have not been properly introduced.”

                “Hughie Mcdonagh.” said the tall man, and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.  He pronounced his name ‘cue-ee’, which told Sherlock a world of information about how they would fight.  Among other things.

Bare knuckles, head blows, facial blows, tendon punches on the arms and shoulders, liver shots.  Tactics were planned out immediately, guaranteeing that not one blow would land.

“My brother Bobby, brother James, cousins Abraham, Jackie, and Johnny.” he said.  They all raised up their heads at their names.  “Them’s all proper Bible names for good lads, and not fairies like Sherlock.  We’re not settled pervert scum are we lads?”  NO, came the group reply of rough voices, all laughing at once.

“Oh, gentlemen, tsk tsk.  I’m the least settled man you’ll ever know.  I’ve had coffees in Paris more times than you can count.  …Which is up to five, I’m guessing.”  Sherlock snapped his chin upward.  “I don’t sense any primary school graduates among you.  Of course, you don’t need to finish P-4 to flay a horse.” 

John snorted loudly next to him, and added, nearly shouting, “…Or cats and dogs.”

“I don’t think you’re very polite, mister Sherlock.” said the mountain.  “I think you’re very cheeky.  Kind of like a fairy.  They’re pretty cheeky too.”  The group of men let out some loud guffaws this time, crossing their arms in continued curiosity over the direction of the banter.

“Maybe I’m cheeky because I know what you want, and not only do I not have it, but you’re not going to get it.”

“Says who?”

“I do.” said Sherlock. “What would you lot do with an ancient artifact? Put it on the mantel? It doesn’t exactly match plastic wrapped chairs in Italian leather.  And caravans don’t have mantels, do they.”  He began to pace slowly to the right, away from John, then stopped.

“You assume too much, fairy man.” said Mcdonagh. “That artifact was stolen from my family’s caravan site over a hundred years ago by a settled family in Fermanagh who didn’t want us by their fields.” said Hughie.  “She was ours for fifty generations, she keeps the bean sidhe away from our childer and gives our family the right to kingship of the fightin’ lads.”

“Rubbish.” said Sherlock.  “It’s worth fifty grand and you’re selling it to the highest bidder.  What’ll that pay for, half a wedding?” he snorted. “That’s if the bride doesn’t have a dress full of budgies and Christmas lights.”

“You’re getting too free for us to keep our fists to ourselves, fairy.” said Mcdonagh, which was precisely what he wanted, as well as the five other men.  They were looking for a fight.

“Was it the archdruid who put you up to this?” asked Sherlock bluntly.  As soon as he asked that, the entire group erupted with laughter.

“He wanted trouble, I think.” said Mcdonagh.  “We don’t get put up to nothin’. We do what we like, and you are in our way, boyo.”

“Not really.  I’d stick to flogging electronics that fell off the back of a lorry, if I were you.  It’s better for your health.” said Sherlock darkly.

At that moment one of the transit van doors opened to reveal a scrawny looking woman in her forties, in a plain retro-looking tan dress and her fiery red, obviously-coloured hair in a massive beehive that seemed not to have changed since 1963.  A freckly and sullen 7-year-old boy sat next to her, staring straight ahead, sulking about not being out in the fight.  She leaned over toward one of the men, an overweight but beefy ginger man named Jackie, and muttered quietly.

Sherlock’s sharp hearing heard her asking with some impatience when they would get back, as she had “spuds on”.

At that moment Jackie hauled off and boxed her in the ear, hard, with one meaty fist.  She immediately crumpled, holding the side of her head, mouth open in agony.  “Keep yer mouth shut, woman, this is business.” he said matter-of-factly.  “We’re sortin’ the pervos.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went straight up nearly into his hairline, and John, simmering on a slow fuse, simultaneously exploded.  He went airborne straight toward the ginger who punched her, and Sherlock reached out lightning fast for the back of his shirt collar.  John stopped short, twisting in his skin like an electrified lizard, face as red as Christmas and his lips pressed white over bared teeth.  He shot one glare at Sherlock, who snapped his head in a lightning “no” motion and mouthed, “wait.”

At that moment, all the men stepped forward in ecstatic anticipation of one-sided mayhem.  Hughie, James and Bobby got to within two feet of John and Sherlock, who was holding John back with both hands, and John had the front of Sherlock’s good shirt twisted and wrung in his fist, raging at Sherlock’s entreaty to hesitate.  The three men leaned in, eyes flaming, waiting for the first blow to land, knowing that ‘settleds’ didn’t like seeing women put in their ‘place’.  At all.  This was their chance for a massive punch-up, and they wanted one.  The other three cousins leaned in behind them, waiting their turns to land a blow.

Sherlock looked at John.  John looked at Sherlock.  Both loosened their grips and took a giant breath. 

“PROTESTANT CHOPS.” said Sherlock.  Unlike ‘Vatican Cameos’, which was hitting the deck, this meant only one thing: a jump straight up into the air, and a simultaneous dispatch of two enemies with airborne Glasgow headbutts.

The choreography of West Side Story was reborn in a scumbag symphony.  And in a crescendo of grace, John and Sherlock popped up into the air like spring-loaded corks, and brought their foreheads down slap onto the nasal bones of Hughie and Bobby Mcdonagh, shattering their lumpy noses instantaneously as their two great meaty fists landed right hooks in the air.  K-SHMUCK went the sickening, wet sound of flesh and bone.  At that second, four men launched themselves at John and Sherlock.  Both John and Sherlock grabbed their two men by the shirtfront and pulled them toward the other two.  The heads of four men impacted one another simultaneously and all four crumpled to the ground. 

The entire first round was over in literally five seconds, and John launched himself toward the Defender before any one of the big men could stand back up for another round.  He tore the door open and found his lockbox under the seat, and as he desperately dialed in the 4-digit combination, Abraham, a dark and curly-headed man with a craggy and weatherbeaten face, got up slowly along with Hughie.  It was too late, however.  John’s Walther was aimed straight at all of them and he shouted.

 “Keep bloody still, or you’ll walk home without tyres and a bullet in your arse.”  John was as cool as a slab of morgue steel at this stage.  He angled his head down and was heaving great lungfuls of adrenalin-tinged air, eyebrows straight up.  “You just pushed the Fifth Northumberland, and if you make one bloody move…” he aimed straight at Abraham, now staring down the barrel. “…you will get what the Taliban got.”  Abraham slowly moved toward John in a challenge of will, one foot closer to John, and raised his chin in defiance.

John answered by pulling back the hammer, his eyes now pools of darkness.  “…don’t.” he said, very quietly.  Even the breeze had died down, holding its breath.

“Yes, John.  Very effective.  Manly as hell.  Let’s crack on.”  Sherlock was standing legs slightly askance, his coat splayed out behind him in abandon, and missing two shirt buttons thanks to John’s earlier grip.  John kept the 30-caliber automatic trained on the group as he circled round to stand close to Sherlock.  All the men were starting to get up now and slowly back toward their vans.

“Not you.” Sherlock pointed to Hughie Mcdonagh, along with John’s gun which shadowed Sherlock’s arm.  “You stand right there.  The rest of you, get in your vehicles, and drive away.  All of you.  Now.  Leave Hughie’s car and he will follow you.”

The group followed Sherlock’s orders fast and peeled out of the gravel lay-by where the Defender was parked.  The sunshine returned, and the slow trills of Classic FM returned noticeably to the day’s events, now a Bach choral ensemble from one of the Brandenburgs.

John and Sherlock were still on high alert, gun trained on Hughie, but Sherlock had relaxed.  They began to back Hughie toward his new BMW, still with its paper tag in the rear window.  Sherlock walked toward him steadily, and Hughie backed up slowly until his back hit the back door of his car, pressing himself against the car while Sherlock leaned slowly into his face.

Sherlock pressed his right leg straight into Hughie’s denim crotch.  John cleared his throat, and averted his eyes with a sigh of exasperation, gun still trained on Mcdonagh.  This would do nothing to dispel rumours, he thought. 

Sherlock’s tall form leaned in hard on Mcdonagh’s beefy frame, both eye to eye, Sherlock staring him down with one hand leaning on the car behind Mcdonagh’s head.

Sherlock leaned in to speak four inches from Mcdonagh’s ear.  “We’re finished here, fairy man.” he said.  “Will we see you again?”

“You don’t play nice or fair, Holmes.  We will get our justice at some stage, you know that.”

“It’s not justice, you’re scum, it won’t be today, and it won’t be for Dafydd Pryce, Hughie.  Now be a good boy and run your whippets a nice, long, long way away from me.”  He stared straight into Hughie’s eyes.  “…And John.  Alright?”

Hughie didn’t answer. He merely stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock casually backed off from pinning Mcdonagh to the BMW with his knee.

“Get out.” he seethed, quietly.  Mcdonagh quickly slid into the car as smooth as satin, peeled off out of the gravel, and was gone.

John dropped his gun and uncocked the hammer.  

“Interesting.” he said, and quietly stashed it in the small of his back, covering it with his own tee and flannel shirt.  “Shall we get to our destination, then?” he asked.

“Might as well now, they won’t be coming to look for us again out of stupidity.  It’s our best window to examine the site.” said Sherlock.  “Shall we?” he wheeled round and stalked toward the drivers side of the landrover.

“Coming,” said John, and jumped into the side.  Then they were gone.

It took them precisely two minutes of coming down from the adrenalin high to begin the cackling natter of post-brawl man bonding.  Although in Sherlock’s case, it was decidedly more focused on the overtly disgusting faults of criminal muscle.

“Phwoarr!” said Sherlock.  “Did you smell that lot?” He wrinkled his nose and grinned.  “It was like a room full of French cheese covered with twenty canisters of Axe.”  John erupted with laughter.

“I thought it was more like the world’s most rancid chip van in the East End.  The one with the mice in with the chips.  …And twenty cans of Axe.”  John leaned forward to pull the pistol out from his jeans, pulled back the chamber to take out the round, pocketed it and put the safety back on.  “They use the Daily Mail to serve the fish and chips, so that you can even read shite while eating it.”

Sherlock laughed out loud, sharing their distaste for a despised Tory tabloid.  He was far more relaxed after a fight than before.  He felt alive, powerful, and calm, and John felt his calm as well, both buzzing with a decidedly strange sort of afterglow that the rest of the world easily ascribed to other human joys.  Most of the world couldn’t understand what it meant to stand your ground, or how pleasurable it was when followed through. 

But most of the world wasn’t John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, a two-man army who accomplished more than an actual army in dismantling the liberties that scumbags seize from the gentle.  Few people wasted the time and embraced the mayhem necessary to do just that, and to be honest, nobody ever sets out wanting it.  It simply becomes an acquired taste after years of tiresome bullying.  Sherlock’s was at the hands of hatred, John’s at the hands of Taliban, and both wouldn’t put up with it for a second while simultaneously satisfying their deep seated and ghoulish curiosity.

It was a recipe for the world’s deepest bond of friendship between two diametrically opposed individuals so different, that the collision of matter and antimatter couldn’t possibly obliterate a conspiracy with greater gusto.

As their chuckling died down, the sycamores became deep and gnarled, mixed in with oak, white pine, and yew, all becoming mossy and enveloped in a magical green light.  The whole forest smelled like deep moss and fresh turned dirt, and the reservoir to their right became a river, then a trickle, and fell in among rocks to a picturesque waterfall.  They drew to the left at the Y in the road and 300 yards down, Pritchard’s cabin came into view, with an odd round hillock behind the cabin, covered with hawthorn bursting with blooms.

They pulled the Defender up the drive and behind the cabin to hide it from the main roadway.  They were screened by a barn and a berm of hedgerows at least two centuries old, but Sherlock couldn’t be too careful.  He reached into the duffel and pulled out a blanket of camo netting, and after liberating the sample kit and canteens in a backpack with John properly holstering his pistol under a light jacket, they both tucked the camo net under the front bumper and pulled it over the Landrover in one swoop.

“You think we need branches as well?” asked John.

“Not really.” said Sherlock.  “Just luck, if Pryce’s friends come looking again.”  He cheerily whistled as he checked his pockets for the usual bits and bobs.  All in order.

“Right.  Now which direction?” asked John, looking around him at the quiet back courtyard of Pritchard’s cabin, which he noticed now was built of long dark vertical cedar panels and sported a quite new tin roof.  All around it was landscaped with fuchsias, and the crimson and lavender buds hung on the bushes in heavy bundles.

Sherlock dug deeply into his duster pocket and pulled out a dog-eared set of Google prints along with his email from Pritchard.  “I have an elevation map of the forest area and the relative position of the cabin.” said Sherlock.  “The email gives me a general idea of the direction of activity, and the front door is…let’s see…directly west.   That’s where he found the spear and heard the shouting.”

John noticed something different.  “You’ve not got your iphone.  That’s like living without a limb for you.” he said, somewhat perplexed.

“Mycroft is sending locator signals because he’s a tit.  Also, you’re here, so there’s no point.”

“Molly might worry, or your parents.” said John, a bit bemusedly.

“Molly takes very good care of herself, and my parents can ring Mycroft if they need me that desperately.” said Sherlock, looking up from the printed email.  “There’s nothing like wasting government resources to locate me, making him resort to comforting their sensibilities the old-fashioned way.”

“What way is that?”

“Lying to them.”  Muttered Sherlock.

John chuckled.  Sherlock continued to plot their path around the property, planning a spiral route that would cover the maximum amount of territory.  The sun was high in the sky now, and it was decidedly warm.  John pulled the military cap out of his jacket pocket and put it on along with a military spec set of Ray-Bans.

“Oh.  Almost forgot.”  John pulled off the pack and unzipped it, reaching in.  “For keeping the sun out of your eyes.” He pulled out the despised deerstalker, and frisbeed it toward Sherlock’s head, both fronts spinning like a perfect googly cricket ball.  Against all laws of probability, it landed whap-smack right on top of Sherlock’s curly mop, askance and with one front obscuring half his face.

This was too much.  John erupted and danced in his military boots with laughter, clapping his hands.  Sherlock stood stock still and allowed him his moment.  He didn’t dignify an answer, and not even touching the hat, looked back down at his Google notes and compass to continue studying them, deadpan.

John found this even more hilarious.  He cackled for a full three minutes, punctuated by Sherlock’s occasional, “Not funny, John.”, which was utterly betrayed by a chinny grin. 

Novel recap and chapter list with links

Hi.  The continuing Sherlock story I've been writing is one which is a pretty action-packed time, and I realize many of you are kind of coming into the middle of it.  So to recap the novel I've been writing, currently in the middle of their adventure in the woods of South Wales, I'll list the chapters/sections of the story in chronological order.

Some of you will be confused regarding the timeline.  I have a trusted friend who can help clear this up later.  I prefer writing heart-pumping action, humor, car chases, confrontations, arguments, fistfights, personality quirks, close calls, political intrigue, mythology, strangeness, esoterica, horror, hilarity and mildly uncomfortable subjects.  Timelines are boring.

So here is the story so far:

Chapter/section 1: The Mystery of the Talking Head

Sherlock gets called in to two separate cyanide murders which look like M's work at the outset, but then are bizarrely connected to some happy memories in his past.  Sherlock pulls a ghoulish prank on Molly at Barts which is utterly typical of his insane sense of humor.

Chapter/section 2: The Jigs and the Reels

An adventure in London's Irish section of town that results in lovely music, tea with decent Irish folk needing justice, a close call with the criminal classes, a sudden gift of a rally car and an annoyed Lestrade.  Mycroft cuckolds the blathering, boring, buzzword-abusing commander in chief of the IRA with a pen, a yo-yo and some very choice words.

Chapter 3: The Cailleach of Caerdydd

A missing museum artifact leads to an epic car chase with the transit van driving sort, perturbed archaeologists, dinner at Torchwood Ground Zero, night ops and an insane witch war.

Chapter 4: A Coffee in Tydfil  (The Cailleach of Caerdydd Continued)

A short chapter.  Sherlock and John discuss the power in belief, and stake out an archdruid.

Chapter 5: Trees and Bees (The Cailleach of Caerdydd Continued)

It was a beautiful spring day in South Wales, John and Sherlock argue over shaving with Japanese swords, the bees are out in force, and suddenly they're surrounded by meatheads looking for trouble.

Chapter 6: A Scumbag Symphony (The Cailleach of Caerdydd Continued)

A blood-spattered nose-shattering fight scene of awesomeness with Glasgow headbutts and lots of kicking bad guy butt.  Also an ear hat frisbee.

Allie

Chapter 5: Trees and Bees (The Cailleach of Caerdydd Continued)

John and Sherlock charged in the Defender up the A470 toward the Merthyr reservoir.  The day was becoming prettier and more glorious as the morning progressed, and at a perfect 23 degrees with a grassy breeze tinged with coniferous pollen, John, through a quick progression of sneezes, still became more cheerful.

 

This did nothing to improve Sherlock’s mood.  Sunshine made him glower.  He felt that sunshine and heat muddled his thought processes, and the smell of cut lawns and roses did nothing to improve his sense of smell for more subtle things.  Heat made him feel stupid and slow, and sunshine tended to blind his skills of observation as well.  He leaned over John, punched the glovebox, whipped out a pair of sunglasses, put them on and continued speeding toward the reservoir exit.

John didn’t care about Sherlock’s mood.  Smiling, he pressed the radio button and it blared loudly on a commercial station playing the latest club thumps from everyone’s Spain holidays. 

It cut into a loud American action promo voice, advertising some local club DJ event sponsored by Tydfil’s largest drink-till-you’re-blind bar.  John grinned behind his hand and counted to five.

“AAAAAARRRRggggh.” spat Sherlock.  John chuckled and hid his face toward the side window, giggling behind his hand.  “DO NOT force me to subscribe to this mindlessness.  YOU KNOW ME better than that.” He punched the radio button to Classic FM and the haranguing American voice was replaced by the quiet Elizabethan trills of Thomas Tallis.  Breathing in relief, he leaned back at the wheel, and glanced at the rearview.  

Another white transit van was behind them, but it did not seem to be so intent on following them as the last.  It was well behind a good 75 yards, so Sherlock only permitted a small bit of his observation to continue noticing it.

“So, a lovely walk today, then?” sighed John, leaning back in the chair and folding his fingers over his stomach.  “Will we stop to get a picnic lunch?”

“Not in holiday mode, John.  Just red bull and crisps for me.” 

John sniffed at that and smiled.  “You live on those bl-oody things.  If it weren’t for the vitamin C in potatoes I’d tell you to eat a steak and not get bl-oody rickets.  Good thing you’re getting a bit of sun.”   he teased, immediately in Doctor Mode.  Sherlock snorted.  

“Coronation chicken salad and bottle of wine for me, I think.  Shall we stop on the way?” continued John.

“Don’t muddle your brain.  We’re not exactly out of the danger zone yet.  I think we will be meeting our shadows very soon.”  Sherlock glanced at the rearview.  The van was still far behind, and began indicating for a left into a garage.  He allowed himself to temporarily dismiss any sense of immediate danger. 

“Who do you think they are?” asked John, getting a little alarmed.

“I have my suspicions.  Keep your heat close, take it out of the lockbox when we stop for the walk.  I suspect with the sort we’ll meet, being alone at the edge of a forest will be the perfect place for them to have a little talk.” Sherlock patted the chest pocket on the black lightweight duster he was wearing, more appropriate for the sunny weather than his usual greatcoat.  

John knew that Sherlock was patting the hiding spot for his latest Asian toy, an antique ninja Tanto that he had snapped up on ebay for 50 quid and instructed the importers to label as “cookware”, which if x-rayed, would have appeared as a chef’s knife and passed Customs…if they even cared to make the effort. 

The tanto had been made with the usual 2,048 layer Damascus steel as was typical for Japanese military weapons of the late 1930s.  The hilt and sheath were exquisitely tooled copper keywork designs punctuated by little silver horses, with the raised name of a long dead family member in kanji lettering on the sheath. 

Sherlock nearly crowed with delight as it had arrived in the letterbox at 221B two weeks earlier, and had immediately ripped the box apart to show John.  “Oooooohhh…Look at this!  You could shave with it!” he grinned, almost evilly.  “Look at that toolwork.” He caressed it like an already-beloved memento.

“Bollocks.  Shaving with a knife is miserable.” John had glanced at it and went back to his Mirror tabloid and cup of tea.

“Really.  HAH.  Watch.” Sherlock petulantly faffed off back to the bathroom and lathered his neck.  He came in and stood in front of the beveled mantelpiece mirror, tanto in hand.

“Yeah, really, you might want to sharpen that.” John clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes skyward.  He had been in combat training with the usual large utility knife issued soldiers, and they had been instructed to always sharpen before shaving in the field, otherwise the burn and itch would distract the constant observation for long range snipers and IEDs. “The steel is in the kitchen.  I think.  Unless you replaced it with something nasty.”

“Really, John.  A steel would dull this.  If it needs sharpening it will be at a jewelers.  Now watch.”  Sherlock raised the blade to his neck and angled it slowly upward, pulling up a layer of foam.  “Look.”

John peered over as Sherlock bared his neck at him.  Smooth as satin.  “How sharp is that thing?!”  he asked, immediately curious.  Sherlock wiped the foam off and handed it to him, hilt forward, thumb and forefinger well away from the blade edge.  He casually picked it up out of Sherlock’s hand, and gently scraped his index finger horizontally across the blade.  It was so sharp, that without barely a few ounces of pressure it had given John a nasty paper cut.  

“OW!” said John, and handed it over to Sherlock like a dead rat, sucking his finger.  “Bloody hell, your toys.” John went back to his tea and paper, giving it a good crack outward to denote being somewhat put out.

“Told you.” said Sherlock, and to make a point, continued shaving with it quickly and efficiently, wiping it on the towel on his shoulder, humming a bit of Brahms as the terra cotta Chinese warrior on the mantelpiece gazed on silently next to an expensive Harris tweed deerstalker, gleefully and vengefully pinned to the mantel with his Leatherman. 

Only an Eton man could have rocked such a hat, and Sherlock despised both it, and Eton, as Mycroft was one of its inevitable products.

The Leatherman was now in his jacket pocket along with the usual jewelers scope, 3 evidence bags, a pair of emergency latex gloves, and small zipped kit of pincers, probe and scalpel.  In his other pocket, a cigarette case he dutifully hid at home from the fretting doctor in a Turkish slipper he kept slid under the settee, which in a bachelor’s flat was never, ever looked under until everything beneath it had noticeably evolved into a form of life.

Mrs. Hudson had no intention of moving sofas, so the slipper was safe from just about everyone, except perhaps for Mycroft, who would have deduced precisely that, and looked.

Intolerable.

Sherlock stopped at the garage before the exit and grabbed his soda and crisps.  John bought a boxed chicken tikka sandwich and tea, and as they hit the road again, regretfully nibbled at its indifferent sogginess and lack of spice that would denote tikka-flavoured anything.

They pulled the Defender off the A470 onto a side road, crossed the dam, and drove north alongside the lake by a wood run by the National Trust, with various clean and well-kept fishing spots about every 50 yards along the lake.  At the Trust lodge and gardens they kept to the right along the reservoir, and the stands of conifers surrounded by grassland soon began to give way to heavy stands of sycamore.  The smell in the air changed to a deep tang of hardwood and the dappled light gave way to a deeper and greener stillness. 

John rolled down the window and stuck his head out like a golden retriever, the air charging up his nose in great draughts of spring headiness.  Suddenly a great stand of sweet woodbine filled the air with woody jasmine and honey.  “OH, would you smell that, Sherlock!  I AM most certainly on holiday, I don’t care what you say!” he sighed. 

Sherlock snuck a look over at him.  His own affection for John's moments of joy gave him a small knot in his throat, enough to sneak a little smile, and a little mist in his eye, while John's face lit up with a disarmingly warm smile that Sherlock never ceased wanting to elicit.

Sherlock heard a great buzz on the stand, and glanced over at it to see throngs of honeybees all over the explosions of small white flowers.  He immediately slowed down and pulled over.  Grabbing a small hand net and leather working glove stashed in his duffel bag behind the seat, Sherlock immediately leapt over a small berm of poppies into the tall grass and over to the stand of woodbine where the bees were congregating.

John was surprised, but not too bothered.  He got out to stretch his legs, bringing his tea, put his other hand in his pocket to dawdle with a shilling, and casually walked toward Sherlock.  He was standing in front of the flowers and darting his head back and forth, following the wandering bees.  Sherlock gently whipped the net over one of the flowers to catch a single honeybee and trapped it in the netting, then slipped his gloved hand into the net to let the bee wander on the leather, without alarming it to stinging.

John had not brought his kit, nor his gun.  Certainly, it was completely unnecessary.  He raised his eyebrows to carefully look over at Sherlock from a slightly safer distance. 

“Hawthorn, sycamore, woodbine, field clover.  This is prime beekeeping stock.” said Sherlock, almost to himself.  “Look at the beautiful grain on the back leg.  You can literally smell what it’s been gathering.  The honey must be utterly incredible.” Then John saw Sherlock’s rare smile, the real one.  “Look at the abdomen.  Phenomenally well fed, no chemical pollution, just perfect.” He let the bee fly free, slightly flustered but not angered. 

“See, now you’re getting in the spirit of it.” said John, grinning.  Sherlock breathed in and closed his eyes, finally allowing an entire minute of gentle delight to pass across his face in the breeze.  The strains of Villanelle on classical guitar gently wafted from the windows of the Defender, which was now tinged slightly with yellow from the pine pollen. 

There really couldn’t have been a more perfectly wonderful moment of spring in South Wales.

Unfortunately, it was not meant to last.

That moment, two battered transit vans coming from opposite directions screeched to a stop and pulled in, blocking the Defender on both ends.  A brand new black and silver BMW pulled in just after.  Two frighteningly beefy men got out of the BMW, and four more out of the transit vans.

Shite.  My gun.  Thought John, remembering he had left it in the Defender.  

Sherlock turned calmly, pulling his gloves off and into his coat pockets, and faced an army of ginger and black-headed warriors, almost all with formerly broken noses, and jaws as hard and square as granite.