Sometimes You Need Dialogue Tags And Don't Want To Use The Same Four

Ik the colours are not in the right order, but...

THERES A FUCKING ACE FLAG IN HER EYES. SHE'S WEARING ACE COLOURS!!!

No one can tell me that Shinobu Kocho is not asexual. 🖤🤍💜

Concept: Garak meeting Data. At first, Garak is curious about this android Julian speaks so highly of, hoping for some delightful literature debate. The moment Data walks into view, however, and Data says, "I am eager to spend my shore leave here on the station" Garak gets distracted by the fact that Data is spending his shore leave in his uniform. Naturally, Garak invites Data to his shop to find him something a little more casual and fashionable to wear, but that proves an impossible challenge: Data simply does not style. Garak can find clothes that suit him, that accentuate his skin tone (and then de-accentuate it when Data requests so in an effort to look more human), and he can find styles that suit Data's body type... but none of that changes the fact that Data wears clothes the same way the average person chooses a padd to work with: with no regard for aesthetic whatsoever. Being an android, he has no concept of personal style, and is equally comfortable working clothed or nude, and only wears clothes because of social expectation. Therefore, no matter what Garak styles him in, it ends up looking bland and drab, because Data never really feels the clothes he wears or takes pride in the cut or the make or how it looks on him or any of it.

Finally, Data finds something that he wants to wear, and worse, it's not even from his shop (but then, of course not: Garak would die before allowing a fashion monstrosity like that to come into existence with his own hands). The item of clothing in question: The most hideous cat-print breezy beach shirt Garak has even seen, in a horrid kitchen wall yellow that puts all of Julian's fashion crimes to shame. And then, to top it all off, the yellow brings out Data's eyes nicely, and he enjoys wearing it because the cat on the print reminds him of Spot... which means he looks good in it.

Garak visits sickbay with several fractured knuckles on his right hand, and Julian jokingly asks: "Did you punch a bulkhead?" Garak laughs, but Miles mentions having to repair an odd fist-shaped dent in the bulkhead in Garak's shop, and makes the same joking remark: "I didn't take Garak for a punching a bulkhead kind of guy, but I don't know how else it could have happened."

Suddenly, his joke doesn't seem like much of a joke.

The 10th Doctor gives of Hozier vibe. I don't know I think he would really feel the music and he just fits the vibe... yk?

Who agrees?

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

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

I've got a question for my fellow autistic and ADHD people. Has it ever happened to you that your brain doesn't recognize people anymore after they got a haircut? Like a friend of mine got a haircut and logically I know it's him, but my brain doesn't link the information it has stored about him and the emotions connected to those to him, so when I see him it feels like he is a complete stranger. Even tho I logically know that I know him. Has this happened to anyone else? And if so what can I do about it?

Yes, he is! He absolutely is!

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

It is THE SHIT!

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

Oh, I love this series so much!

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

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

Captain Hastings and Miss Lemon kicking around their shared brain cell like a football

Escape Route

@sherlocktember2024 prompt - "Victorian"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m all right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear exclusionists and gatekeepers please explain:

You say aspec people don't belong in the LGBTQIA+ community because we are are "not oppressed enough" or "basically straight" but then proceed to say that the A in LGBTQIA+ stands for ally. Like WTF?! Allys most of the time are cishet people. They are straight, they aren't oppressed based on their sexuality in any way and you say they are part of the community and we aren't?! Please explain I don't get it.

The moment when you feel the ability to speak or make facial expressions leaving you. It's a physical sensation and all I can think is "Ah, there it is."

It's the physical equivalent of watching a balloon float away.