Hello, and welcome back to the fic I haven't been active on in over a month. My apologies for the delay, I was quite wrapped up in quite a few different things which I will categorize as "stuff" and be done with it. So here we are, after all this time, with the next Sue. Not to mention a TARDIS...
Sherlock Sue: Written to possess an intelligence to rival that of the famed consulting detective, this Sue is far more emotional under the pretense of being less driven by her emotions. In other words, she wallows in her angst without ever making a definitive decision about the subject of her angst. She also tends to be unusually tall, dark-haired, and pretty much Sherlock himself in female form. This Sue applies only to the BBC TV series.
At this point in our adventure I wondered vaguely which fandom we technically belonged to. I mean, sure at some point it all comes back to Tolkien, but Galadriel was dressed like Indiana Jones and talked like she was interrogating a murder suspect (and don't even get me started on Ziva). And here we all were, stuck in a TARDIS as we whizzed through time and space trying to figure out how to land.
Well. Maybe Galadriel had a towel for that too.
The TARDIS was a chorus of 'what does this do?'s and 'Don't press that!'s as Galadriel and Ziva did their best to fly us toward the modern!AU Sue.
"Can't we program this to find disruptions in the Fourth Wall? I mean that's pretty much what it's supposed to do!" I has assigned myself to the task of untangling tubes and wires around central control system of the thing.
"It's losing fuel." the Doctor sounded a lot less worried than the rest of us, given he could just regenerate every time he crash landed. Not to mention he'd be rid of us pretty quickly too. We'd all be either sandwiched on the surface of an uninhabited planet in the outer reaches of the galaxy or, more probably, suffocating and imploding at the same time as we drifted through outer space.
"Well, what does it run on?" Galadriel shouted to the Doctor, who was still bound up between the Faramirs like a misplaced, kinky sandwich.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "It runs on UST," he muttered, barely audible.
"It runs on what?" asked Galadriel though gritted teeth. Well, gee, you'd think with the Elven hearing and all she'd have picked up on that.
"Right now it's running on a build-up of unresolved UST, okay? Why do you think the companions are always female? How do you think I've been getting around all these years without so much as an inter-galactic refueling station?"
I snorted. I should have known. Fear of death really draws your attention toward basic survival, rather than the asses of other members of your company, as touched on in the undebatable chemistry of Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield. Even the Faramirs had taken their eyes off the Doctor and were a bit more focused on the blinking lights and the fact that I swear to the Valar we were all about to bite the dust in the most horrific, lonely death scene since Gravity. Where was Sandra Bullock when you needed her?
And then Galadriel threw her hat behind her with all the shameless romanticism of a bad cowboy movie, grabbed Ziva, and kissed her hard. I'm talking the full-on face consumption of all that unresolved sexual tension that our author couldn't bear to stretch out any longer.
"Ask me why I did that," said Galadriel after they'd broken apart, albeit somewhat breathlessly given that by the Valar they had been sucking face for far longer than was necessary or even reasonable just to heighten the sexual tension of a room.
"Why did you do that?" There was so little question actually in the question that I was fairly sure the answer was something along the lines of 'we both know you've been ogling me ever since we met; why did you wait until we were all about to die to actually kiss me?'
"I don't know. I have absolutely no idea."
Ah, so that's what she was doing. Give someone a big fat smooch and then when they ask why, just say you don't know and you have to sort out your feelings. Guaranteed to double the UST in any closed space and make everyone around you melt into puddles of awkwardness until they work up enough energy to leave.
Oh, that's right. We couldn't leave. Because we were still hurtling toward our inevitable doom.
And came the Faramirs to save the day. Because they were so wrapped up in their own relationship that they had no shame interrupting significant moments in the relationships of others. Which, most of the time, is rude and uncalled for, but right now probably saved our sorry asses. "Excuse me, ladies, but if you're not too busy staring lovingly into each other's eyes, we've got a TARDIS about to crash."
Their eyes tore apart. The frantic beeping stopped. Everything seemed to calm down in an instant.
"I guess this thing really does run on UST," I muttered.
Ziva groaned. "All right, but how will we refuel without having hazy and easily misinterpreted discussions about our feelings for each other every couple of minutes?"
And there it was. That little light bulb going off in my head that reminded me why I was considered the 'brain' spawn of the Fourth Wall.
"Guys," I said, "I know where we're going." Because for once in my entire friggin' life, I did actually know where we were going, rather than just tagging along with a sinking feeling that my role in Galadriel's master plan would be less than desirable.
Collective eyebrows shot up. The Doctor just glared at me. Because wherever I was going, it probably wasn't where he was supposed to be going.
"We're going to pay a visit to Sherlock."
The Faramirs grinned from ear to ear. I had a feeling that if it weren't Benedict Cumberbatch were were talking about here, Galadriel would tell them to keep their minds out of the gutter. But it would have been a fruitless effort anyway. The Faramirs, while wholly devoted to each other, had a weakness for posh BBC characters. I could see why.
Off we were, to the land of subtext that goes way beyond subtext to the point where all you want is for the screenwriters to just say, 'screw it, they're a couple,' and be done with the whole debate.
The TARDIS whirred and buzzed and all that crap, and we sat in a painfully awkward silence, waiting for it to land. At some point we untied the Doctor, and Galadriel had the sense to ask nicely for him to take us all to our desired universe.
She offered him a towel for his trouble, but he turned it down, preferring to make himself a nice hot cup of tea. I took the towel and wiped Galadriel's oil paint off my face. The TARDIS did have a sink and a bathroom, with a fully functional bathtub, because apparently even nine hundred year old aliens need to shower once in a while.
I was not ready to disembark when we landed. In fact, I was half way though a long, oil-paint slick shower when the TARDIS spun to a halt. And when I say spun, I mean the head-on-shower-handle collision of suddenly being met with atmospheric pressure and time that passes at a regular rate.
Not that time ever passes at a regular rate when you're skipping universes, but after you've been flying through time and space for the last few hours (if hours even pass in this thing) the first thing you feel upon landing is the intense pressure of intergalactic, millennial jet lag.
And then you realize that the shower is the worst possible place to pass out. Then you get out as quickly as possible, slip on the floor of the TARDIS and hit your head again on the sink, because for a magic flying telephone box that's supposed to be 'bigger on the inside,' this thing has got a bathroom the size of a broom closet.
I poked my head out the door. "Why'd we land so soon?"
"Shortcut," said Filmamir from the other side of the door.
"We traveled through Hobbit movieverse."
"You skipped the Fourth Wall again?! Don't you know it gives me a headache?" Every time the Fourth Wall (or the shambles remaining of it) broke a little bit more, my head just started to kill. Not to mention I'd just hit it twice, but that seemed irrelevant.
"Easy," said Tolkienmir from the control panel, "If you have a horcrux in you, we can probably remove it."
"Wait-I thought you had to commit murder to create a horcrux." Filmamir furrowed his brow. "Did you never read the books?"
Tolkienmir looked appalled. "Of course I read the books! But the Fourth Wall has likely killed many a desperate fangirl and fanboy in its time. More than enough for it to spit out a horcrux. And just in time too, after Spalko and Haldir's daughter. Half Elf and half assassin- practically a Sue begging to be written, but raised by high-ranking members of the GCWFHB. But as far as horcruxes are concerned, probably a dozen ways to rid him of one if necessary. We can just take it out and shove it in a sack somewhere, sling it into space. That way no one can kill the Fourth Wall entirely, but Max wouldn't get migraines. Right, Max?" he shouted in my direction as I frantically tried to dress myself before we left.
"Clearly, you didn't read the books. You probably haven't even watched the films." Filmamir glared at him.
"Might want to hurry up, Max!" Tolkienmir pounded on the door. "Galadriel's leaving, and she's impatient enough to leave anyone but Ziva behind." I could hear shuffling on the Faramirs' side of the door as I laced up my shoes in a hurry.
I put on my coat, racing out of the bathroom as the TARDIS closed up again. And I was left on my own with a surly Tenth Doctor.
"Just left," said the Doctor, gesturing to the door. "You might catch them." He shrugged. "You might not."
I ran to the door, stopping as the Doctor called behind me, "If you can't find your companions, just invite a random girl back here. Kiss her cheek, if you must, but nothing too forward or we cross the line between UST and sexual harassment. We can take off, and leave them behind. Adventure of a lifetime, intergalactic war, and so on."
I rolled my eyes at him and bolted out the door, into the streets of London. For future reference, the streets of London were busy, rather smelly, and tinted a metallic grey, but the grey could just be an effect of the Sherlock universe.
The streets of London were also quite devoid of Middle Earth life. Galadriel, the Faramirs, and Ziva were nowhere in sight. Well. At least I knew where they stood in terms of our fellowship. I wonder if Legolas would have ditched Aragorn and Gimli halfway through had he gotten the chance. I mean, he got all the good stunts anyway. He probably could have taken out Sauron's entire army on his own.
I wandered down a random street, trying to find some sort of landmark that might give me an idea of where I was in relation to anything. I mean, practically being programmed with information about popular, groundbreaking, and endangered universes was one thing. Actually being in them was another.
I could spout all the information I wanted about Narnia. But if the TARDIS dropped me there, I would be royally screwed.
So here I was, trapped in a fandom I knew everything about but had no idea how to navigate. No Elf-witches or snarky stewards or assassins to trail around.
I stepped into the street, and a taxi whizzed by, inches from running over me. All I could see were cars and people and buildings everywhere I turned. If this was a modern city, I wanted nothing of it. Once this whole Valardamned ordeal was over, I would settle down in a nice countryside, where there were no cities and no wilderness. Nothing that could run me over, and nothing that could eat me.
Clearly, I would never survive on my own.
Looking at the signs, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself at the corner of Baker Street. Who better to help me out of this mess than the universe's titular character? I turned the corner, then stopped dead short.
"Pardon," said a tall, dark-haired woman with alabaster skin and twinkling lavender-
Shit.
If it hadn't been for the purple eyes, I might have assumed this woman was a genderbent Sherlock Holmes. That, and the light, airy voice that sounded like it had come straight from a Disney knockoff. It didn't matter whether Sherlock was male or female-that voice just didn't match.
There was only one thing this woman could be.
I had just run into a Sherlock-Sue.
The Sue extended its hand. "I'm so sorry for my lack of manners. I am Velouria Moriarity."
So the author was going for an 'arch-nemesis's sister' angle. How cliche.
"Max," I said, because yeah, that's pretty much my whole name. One boring, three-letter syllable, which alone proves I could never become a Stu, no matter how hard I tried.
The Sue adjusted its purse, tossing its smooth mahogany locks over its shoulder, its eyes sparkling in-No. Stop it.
It was the first time I'd faced down a Sue on my own, not counting the times Galadriel used me as bait. At least then I knew that the people who had my back could kill you with a paper clip.
"Galadriel," I whined quietly, praying to the Valar that she'd turn up behind me. It was here, in a near-death situation, the question struck me why I prayed to the Valar. I mean, technically I wasn't born into Tolkien-verse. I looked like any geeky Andrew Garfield character ever, albeit shorter, and with more acne and a hell of a lot less muscular, but… you get the picture. Basically, I was in no place to be associating myself with the curses and pleads of the Tolkien universe.
Of course, that's where I popped out of the Fourth Wall, blipped into existence in complete defiance of the Law of Conservation of Matter, but it's not like I really looked like I could have lived there. Anyone born into a universe filled with orcs and immortal Sues and that much sexual tension (although I'm pretty sure most of it is Galadriel's fault, in the long run) had to be somewhat hardened.
Obviously, I was not. And I was showing it here, facing down the most dangerous Mary-Sue any of us had faced down yet. And I was doing it without back-up of any kind. Not even a multi-purpose towel.
Where's an assassin when you need one?
The Sue applied a layer of lip gloss. "I was coming from 221B," it said in that twinkling post-spinoff Tinkerbell voice. "Meeting with Sherlock Holmes."
"That's nice," I squeaked.
"You look rather like Doctor Watson," the Sue continued, as if I hadn't spoken, "are you related to him?"
"No," I said, and then, finally deciding to not act like a scared puppy, lest I die in such a position, I proceeded to ask her, "do you really think that Sherlock Holmes appreciates your visit?"
In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have said that.
It stuck out its lower lip in an unreasonably attractive pout, tears coming to its eyes. You'd think a Sue that supposedly spent time around Sherlock Holmes would be a little bit less sensitive, but no. It just started quietly crying in front of me. Its tears were the kind that demanded sympathy, no matter how reluctant you were to give it. Clearly, its intent was to lure me into comforting it and then to stab me with a knife it undoubtedly kept in that purse.
"I don't know what to do without him," it whispered with so much emotion I thought its head would explode. I could feel my eardrums drooping. "I don't know if he loves me as much as I love him, and I'm too afraid to declare my love." Hi kids, let's see how many times you can use the word 'love' in one sentence without making your audience feel any real emotion!
Generally, when a Sue starts angsting over whether to declare their love for whichever character, they decide in the end whether to do it or not. But this Sue, in some twisted sense trying to be a "strong female character" didn't "base her decisions off her emotions." It still suffered all those pesky angstmotions, just without the payoff. Excellent.
Maybe that meant instead of killing me, it would angst about the possibility of killing me, and never come to a verdict on the matter.
It was then that I remembered something-way back on Caradhras. The ice block Sue, that Galadriel killed off using the inconsistencies of cryogenics. Logic. This was the Sherlock fandom after all.
"You know" I said, laying an awkward hand on Velouria's shoulder. "Sherlock is described as a high-functioning sociopath. Technically, the definition of a sociopath is someone who's incapable of feeling empathy or having a conscience. While he can feel emotion, sociopaths tend to be rather antisocial, and it's unlikely he would ever attach himself to you as a romantic partner. Plus he and John Watson are hopelessly entangled in the net of complete infatuation and unresolved sexual tension. It's not worth your trouble."
What? That was logic, through and through.
Def. angstmotions: the spectrum of emotions conveyed purely through unbearable angst.
Well, hope you enjoyed. Don't forget: the campaign for bags of chips that don't just contain air is still open. Just review :) I don't even know how that campaign got started. I think I mentioned something way back in... ugh, never mind. I don't even know how those two things are related anymore. Reviews are to authors what Pringles are to Netflix binge-watchers.