galaxy-with-googly-eyes
Galaxy | she/her | autistic | ADHD | This is a place for my hyperfixations,They may change often, but I'll always be obsessed with murder mysteries
102 posts
Latest Posts by galaxy-with-googly-eyes
One of the world's most famous detective...
...is now YOUR problem.
I just wanted to let anyone know who would be interested - I worked on the charachter designs on Hearth & Holmes, a game currently in development by @abigailmoment ! If your curiosity is peaked, you can play the demo, and wishlist it on steam!
While I am currently experiencing what can only be described as an Edgar Allan Poe kind of melancholy that could be romanticised/endured by rotting in bed all day, feeling sad and reading poetry from said poet, I regrettably have to study for insanely important exams, and so life is pure misery
I propose: A raccoon!
Anyone who says Sherlock Holmes would be a cat is wrong. He is not. That man is the most dog-coded anyone can get. Watson literally describes him as a golden retriever in The Adventure of the Dancing Men. If anything, Watson is the cat of the duo.
Edit: me when I’m called out by sherlock is a cat blogs 💀. he does have cat traits lol but the amount of times I’m reading acd and I’m reminded of dogs I know-
What if
Beekeepers Picnic Picnic
(In Regent's Park, London? This Summer? 🤔)
If you think about it, these two:
Are very much like them:
To be clear, I very specifically mean Basil Rathbones version of Holmes (Asterix), but even more Nigel Bruce's version of Watson (Obelix)
TW: SA.
Addition to the discourse of Kirk being a victim of SA and how it reflects in his behavior.
During watching Plato’s Stepchildren (s3e10) there’s one of very uncomfortable scenes where Spock, Chapel, Kirk & Uhura are forced to kiss. And I’ve noticed a very interesting detail of the difference in behavior between two “couples”.
Chapel expresses how she is ashamed and I would say scared would be a right term. Spock isn’t trying to comfort her, he himself is struggling. He thinks he failed her. They both are ashamed, disgusted, uncomfortable and visibly hurt and they try to fight even during the kiss, which makes it a very tough watch.
But then we see a dialogue between Uhura and Kirk.
Kirk, unlike Spock, is able to comfort Uhura, by asking “not to think of them”, because “they want [us to feel frightened]”. And he is succeeded. Uhura starts thinking about something else, something comforting — about him as well (as she has to kiss him), because she is now in a very vulnerable, traumatic position, she is trying to associate Kirk with safety despite him on this moment not being safe for her. So when they have to act, they don’t try to fight. When kiss happens they are more relaxed then Spock & Chapel, not trying to break the kiss. And Kirk is just staring, not at her, but on their sadists, with eyes full of anger and hatred.
What he advices to Uhura is something what many SA victims would experience, when they are in the similar position. Not thinking of what is happening. Not focusing on what exactly is happening. Not thinking of their bodies and the body of the other. Not showing their fear, or even shame. It’s because, unlike Spock, Kirk has an experience. He uses his body many times during the show to escape, to save his ship, his people or himself.
Kirk’s pretty rightful advice, I would say, proves, that the fact that he is a SA victim was the writers’ intention once again and it aligns with his behavior in other episodes where he has to use his body. Not thinking, thinking of comfort, not showing true emotions are his coping mechanisms.
He’s not a manslut. He’s a victim.
Let me introduce you to Peter Cushing, the Holmes actor that looks insanely similar to the Sidney Paget illustrations!
I will forever hate the BBC for losing the Peter Cushing Sherlock Holmes episodes!
Like, Peter Cushing is one of my favourite Holmes actors ever and to think we could have had 16 Episodes instead of 5 and a movie! AHHH
(I know the BBC recovered another episode last year, but as far as I'm aware,e you can't watch it anywhere)
BBC what the fuck did you do to lose episodes from a 60s show? You kept Basil Rathbone's episodes through WW2 you have no excuse!
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
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.
Captain Hastings and Miss Lemon kicking around their shared brain cell like a football
I was thinking about this at work the other day and like. what if the reason Hastings is so in-the-moment to the exclusion of all other moments stems from his service during the War?
Don't think about the past. Go too far and you're confronted with the horrors of the trenches. Shells screaming overhead, no way of knowing where they'll land. The sound of explosions ringing so loud in your ears that you don't know if you'll ever hear anything else again. Great, metal beasts crushing everything in their path. Boys torn apart before they had the chance to come of age.
Go back even further and you have to face the man you once were. The man you can never be again. The man you could have been but can never become after living through what you did.
And as for the future, it simply doesn't exist on the battlefield. It's become a vague, nebulous, abstract concept that may or may not come to pass, so why give it too much thought? The here and now is all that matters. It's the only thing you're guaranteed.
That’s this game - pumpkin panic, a rather cosy farming- horror game where a bunch of monsters try to kill you as soon as it gets dark while you still need to do your farming
sometimes I forget standing up isn’t painful and difficult for most people so I’ll be watching something like game changer and see the people standing behind their podiums the whole episode and think ‘wow don’t they need to sit down. how can they still think coherent thoughts’ and then I’m like oh. yeah. I have a disease
the neurodivergent experience:
20% of the time: wowwieee!!! i love my passions and interests!!!!! they make me so happy i want to jump up and down!!!!! weee!!!!!!! :3333333333
80% of the time: this mind is a prison
People who hate Frodo Baggins are my enemy. "He didn't do anything and was useless"--yeah, okay, so what you're not understanding is that he was the sacrificial lamb. He endured physical, mental, and emotional torment that got worse and worse as his will broke. Everyone knew this. EVERYONE KNEW THIS. That's why everyone was devastated about it. Because Frodo was the most innocent among them, that was the entire point. He represented ordinary peaceful people being destroyed by the horrors of war. And as a hobbit he also represented some of the last vestiges of magic in what was basically a post magic apocalypse.
Frodo was basically an innocent puppy thrown into the Torment Nexus so that EVERYONE ELSE could maybe have a hope of surviving. And he did that willingly. HE DID IT OF HIS OWN FREE WILL, KNOWING IT WOULD RUIN HIM.
Frodo haters won't see the light of heaven
wait everyone rb this and put in the tags who you started reading fanfiction for, and it doesn’t have to be anime
Captain Arthur Hastings is so ADHD coded.
Every episode he has a new hyperfixation, that he has abandoned by the next one. His car is pretty much his only constant interest but even then he plans to participate in a 24 HOUR race without having any experience with racing. We see how easily a new hyperfixation is triggered with Hastings in one episode (don't know exactly which one) when he and Poirot visit some attorney who deals with the stock market and not shortly after Hastings is absolutely obsessed with it. It screams ADHD to me.
In 'The Wasps Nest', when Hastings is currently obsessed with photography, Poiroit even says something along the lines of "his newest tick, I'll give him two weeks" (rough translation from the German synchronisation since the English original is not available anywhere in Germany as far as I know ...). So we have canon proof that Hastings getting new obsessions/hobbies and abandoning them shortly after is indeed happening and not just the writers not showing us how he pursues his interest anymore.
I'd also attribute his naivety/slowness (some people say he's stupid but I won't) to ADHD. I myself and most people I know with ADHD keep getting told that we are naive or gullible. Taking people at face value and generally not assuming ill intent is common in people with ADHD and something we also see in Hastings.
His slowness / him not being really smart is a characteristic that is certainly being amplified by the fact that we constantly see him in comparison to Poirot (I doubt that he would be seen as that stupid if the show was just him and Japp). I'd also say that him not being able to follow Poirot's deduction and reasoning doesn't mean that he is necessarily dumb, just that he is not as intelligent as Poirot and he does have his smart moments. (Also I think he was meant to represent the audience, and we often also have no clue what'S going on) But his less bright moments can also be attributed to ADHD. ADHD causes brain frog , as well as concentration and memory issues ( If I don't write important appointments down on my arm I will forget them no matter how important, but I can tell you everything I've learned about vulcanos when I was 8). He gets distracted easily, fails to pay attention to the 'important aspects' of cases and would rather tell everyone about his newest hyperfixation or work on his car, but he's trying his best. In his areas of expertise (cars, or whatever he is currently obsessed with) he is smart and knows his way around, he's just at loss when it comes to everything else.
I forgot halfway through where I was going with this soooo....
Captain Arthur Hastings OBE has ADHD!
I just started season 3 of Poirot and, excuse me? Where are Hastings' little hyperfixations? Where is the adorable little side plot of Hastings being obsessed with a new obscure little topic every episode? I hope they just dropped it for the first few episodes and will pick it up again. Give the man his ADHD back!!
Quick reminder that the Ronald Howard Holmes adaption from 1954 has a gasogene
i'm really tempted to make a post on the gasogene in 221B that's mentioned like once in the novels because i think they were funny as fuck for drinking sparkling water together in the most dangerous way possible
Being next to a nuclear reactor that‘s gonna melt down with Jean-Luc Picard… well we both won’t know how to deal with that but there’s a good chance that enterprise crew will come and rescue their captain so I might survive. Even if we don’t at least I will die alongside Jean-Luc Picard - that’s something…
you've been put in A Situation. you have to deal with it and get out to the other side alive. luckily a portal opens and a Star Trek character emerges to help!
Person: Sir I am in desperate need of help do you think you can do something
Sherlock Holmes: Why of course! I’ll gladly figure out any vexing issue! Don’t even bother paying me! The challenge is its own reward!!!!!
Some Asshole: solve this case u piece of shit
Sherlock Holmes: That will be £10000 sorry I don’t make the rules
Pinnacle
@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "out of love"
During Watson’s first months and even years of living with Sherlock Holmes, he had found the man incredibly odd. Sometimes, Watson thought he understood his companion, and then would find himself completely wrong. Making lists of Holmes’ abilities and even accompanying him on cases had not been enough to unravel that mystery.
Attempting to puzzle out Holmes and all of his contradictions kept Watson occupied, at least. After his injuries in war and subsequent illness, his health remained poor. Not well enough to set up in active practice as a doctor, certainly.
There were plenty of interesting things to observe during his ongoing convalescence, even if somewhat baffling to live with. Holmes was very particular at times, fussy and upset if Watson so much as moved papers off the settee. But when looking for something, Holmes would scatter those same papers all over the floor, and then seem entirely to forget that he had done so.
He was similarly erratic in other ways, from his sleep habits to whether or not he would permit himself any food. Watson suspected that some factors governed these changes, but his own observational skills were not developed enough to fully understand it. Not that it stopped him from trying to unravel that mystery.
It was on a cold, stormy night that one of those contradictions presented itself strongly, and in a way that altered Watson’s way of looking at the world. The topic at hand: love.
Love was something that had come up occasionally during their late night conversations beside the fireplace, and it returned now as they sheltered indoors from the storm. Watson argued strongly in favor of it, calling on all the arguments he had heard. What was life without love, without having one person to whom one was entirely devoted? Marriage was surely the pinnacle of the whole human experience, and a life without love incomplete.
“Now, I cannot agree with you there,” Holmes said hotly, pushing more tobacco into his pipe as he spoke. He sounded very nearly hurt by Watson’s comment. “I have never loved, and I do not find my life the slightest bit incomplete. I shall never marry.”
That was a shocking statement, and one that left Watson momentarily speechless. He shook his head, baffled. “But Holmes, everyone wants to be married.”
“My dear doctor, you are falling into the habit of neglecting the facts before you. I do not wish to marry, nor to love. And therefore?”
“Not everyone,” Watson admitted, although it still seemed a shock.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And you?”
Watson’s cheeks warmed. “Well, I’ve… had my share of experiences. I was a soldier, Holmes.”
“And such things are expected of soldiers. I have no interest in those things either, and do not understand the appeal.” Setting his pipe aside, Holmes steepled his fingers together and gazed at Watson. “Have you loved? And if not, do you feel your life incomplete?”
“Well, I should like my life a bit better if I was able to be more active,” Watson said ruefully, resting a hand on his thigh. The cold weather gnawed on it, making movement at all difficult. Even sitting still hurt, and his shoulder was no better off. “And if I was in less pain.”
“You are deviating from the question at hand, Watson.” Holmes sprang out of his chair and dashed into the bedroom. He emerged with two blankets, and settled one across Watson’s lap as he continued. “I hardly think that marriage would miraculously resolve the effects of your injuries.”
“I suppose not. But a wife could bring me tea, or brandy!”
Holmes gave him a look, finished tucking in the blanket, and then swept over to the dining table. He poured a cup of tea, and a glass of brandy, and then brought both to Watson. “A friend may fulfill those particular little needs just as well. Unless you intend to argue that love is required to merely pour a glass?”
“I suppose not,” Watson said, watching as Holmes placed the drinks on a small table and moved it within easy reach. “Then it is friendship which you deem essential for fulfillment?”
“Your mistake is in assuming that I think any single element of life is essential for fulfillment. I know a man who has no friends whatsoever, and is entirely happy so long as his track between home, work, and his club is not interrupted.”
Watson smiled, nodding. “I suppose we are all individuals. But I meant for yourself, my dear chap.”
Holmes twitched a brief smile at him, then picked up Watson’s pipe and filled it with tobacco with the same care he would use when filling his own. “I admit to the value of friendship for myself.”
Chuckling, Watson accepted the pipe. “You sound like a man confessing a crime!”
“Well, I do not like to be reliant on anything outside myself. One can always rely on oneself.” Striking a match, Holmes indicated the pipe again. “But it is pleasant not to be alone.”
Having lit Watson’s pipe, Holmes wrapped himself in the second blanket, settled crosslegged in his armchair, and turned his attention to his own pipe. Watson watched him, heart clenching with affection for this strange man.
Holmes claimed not to love, and it certainly seemed he had never experienced it in the way that was so glorified by society. But when he fetched drinks or a blanket for Watson, was that not born out of love of a different kind? That seemed the case to Watson, at least, and perhaps love for a friend was every bit as wonderful.
And as for himself… Well. Although less pain would certainly be nice, what experience could possibly surpass living at Baker Street with his dear friend, and passing every stormy night exactly like this?
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!”
idk if it's just me but i'm glad that the majority of people outside of here believe tumblr is a dead site because like i've been here for 13 years and like this is my house??? i don't need thousands upon thousands of people flocking here it'd be like inviting chimps to a house party total fucking carnage
Oh but my ADHD does care. If I don’t get it right on the first round I will never get back to it. In fact if I don‘t finish the whole chapter/one shot in one sitting it will never be finished. If I abandon it once my lack of executive function will not allow my to rework/ continue it without immense agony, so it will wither in my drafts forever. So I in fact do have to sit there for 6h+ to finish that work in one sitting for me to ever be able to show it to the world.
stop trying to make your draft perfect on the first try. your characters don’t care. your plot doesn’t care. even the imaginary readers in your head don’t care because they don’t exist yet. just write the terrible version. write the cringey dialogue and the scenes that go nowhere and the metaphors so bad they make you cringe into next week. because guess what? you can’t edit a blank page, but you can edit a hot mess. embrace it.
If I had unlimited funds and could get any car I wanted I wouldn't buy something like a red Mercedes convertible I'd get a 1931 Lagonda 2 Litre, have it gutted, and turned into an electric car.
I have this vision of Holmes getting sick or injured while out investigating, idk, anything that puts him into a vulnerable position really. But he will politely but very sternly prohibit anyone from fussing, or helping or touching him, insisting they GET WATSON, and that's his last word on it. And when Watson finally arrives, Holmes all but melts into his care, and Lestrade realises a) oh Mr Holmes was really not feeling great and b) those two have something really special going on
sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four
