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2020-01-09
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8,321
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1/1
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The Three Fables

Summary:

Dale Pike points out something that almost nobody's (?) noticed about the clues to the Sherlock Series 5 airdate, but she makes you read through her dorky remarks to get it.

Oh, hush. If it were too easy, how would it be any fun?

Notes:

The screen snaps to black.

The two women sit in mutual silence, letting the stunned numbness percolate in the suddenly quiet room. One reclines in her easy chair, the other sprawls sideways on the couch; each mulling their thoughts like so much wine, (and there has been much wine, since they decided—what the hell—to make the last forty minutes into a drinking game) and now they just sit, considering opinions before voicing them. The extended pause is pregnant but comfortable, as befits companionship as long and lenient as theirs.

“Huh.” Says Trinket.

“Yep.” Says Pike.

Crickets. (Oh, yes; actual crickets. The window is open and Pike’s house backs onto a swath of green-space.)

“I’m surprised...” the first begins to elucidate, then trails off. She isn’t really. Anyone should have seen this coming, given the evidence of the previous episodes.

A pause. “But really...” Pike offers, casually flipping the TV converter around between her hands, but then concedes, “still, though.” No, it was not fair. Not fair to assume that even the most objective and discriminating of fans could predict such a severe nosedive.

Trinket has no words for this. Her viewing partner will find them anyway; the oncoming storm is unavoidable.

Pike does not disappoint. She raises her arms skyward before hardening muscles into clawed, shaking fists: “BRAN?!”

“I know, RIGHT?! ‘Why do you think I came all this way?’ Christ on a cracker.”

“Or how about: ‘Who has a better story?’ When the dialogue starts waxing philosophically about the ‘Nature of Stories’, it’s a sure sign the writers are drinking way too much of their own Kool-Aid—“

“And you would know,” Trinket smirks playfully.

“Oh, hush.” Pike tents her fingers under her chin and considers the blank Panasonic with a far-away look. “You know what I would have done...?”

And they spend the next quarter hour debating better arcs, such as Jaime’s redemption—which is a bit cliché, but HELL—and some less travelled; such as Arya killing Cersei but TWIST! out of mercy instead; until they begin to argue—the Night King should/shouldn’t be ultimately killed—and Trinket decides to digress because it’s not worth getting Dale worked up over.

“It’s a totally avoidable travesty, is all I’m saying,” Pike sighs, throwing her hands up. “No, it’s not a ‘democracy’, and it shouldn’t be, but—“

Trinket can’t resist teasing: “Reminding you of Sherlock?”

Pike narrows her eyes. “Hush.”

“I thought you said it was coming back—“

“Oh, sure, at some point,” the former fan sighs heavily. “There was way too much Nudge-Nudge-Wink-Wink for it to be otherwise. But who cares?”

Trinket doesn’t need to say: You do.

“They’re out of options,” Pike continues yammering, unprompted. “You can’t build a decent fifth act on the foundation of a horribly inconsistent fourth. But you also can’t renege an ENTIRE series under the “It Was All a Dream” trope. It’ll confuse the shit out of the normies and the critics will lambast it—which they should. This is Sherlock Holmes, not Rosanne fucking Barr!”

“So Option Three—“

“Don’t say it.”

Snickers. “Wholock, baby.”

“Delightful in homage; unworkable in mainstream. No.”

If Trinket were a fan, she might have chastised Pike for giving up after three. She’d once tried to watch it, but the kids were too noisy and she’d missed most of it. So she just says; “Well, Moffat’s just a yellow-belly has-been with no balls and...” She trails off, because the wannabe script-vigilante on the couch is suddenly staring off into space with a stunned half-smile on her lips. “What?”

The smile spreads. “Yellow,” she murmurs.

Perhaps it's the current story-doctoring mind, ignited by D & D’s infuriating incompetence. Perhaps it’s the two-and-a-quarter-year hiatus; the necessity of taking a long step back. A bird’s eye view.

Or perhaps it was just the right amount of wine.

She looks at Trinket. Huffs out a surprised laugh. “Huh.”

“What?!”

“I know how I’d do it now.”

Trinket snorts. “Jesus, Ahab. Took you long enough. You gonna Quixote-that-script-up then?”

“No, no. I mean, yes—I probably will—but that’s not the point.” When Dale reaches for the laptop on the coffee table, she opens up Excel, not Word, and brings up the formula menu. "The point is...” she chuckles as she types numbers in, “...maybe I’m not the only one.” She spins the screen toward Trinket, with a triumphant flourish, since the formula result has confirmed her hypothesis with singular precision.

“So?”

“That, my dear, is the Sherlock return date. And the reason why.”

But it means nothing to her. “Hmm,” she shrugs casually. “Well, try not get too wrapped in a story again, ok?”

“I’ll need to tell three—”

“Oh NO—“

“Don’t worry. They’re short."

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The room is locked.

If you were the curious occupant, what you would see is a dimly-lit wood-paneled study, broad and deep, sparse in furniture and abundant in cupboards and cabinets all around like a small museum.  Delicately-feathered taxidermies of avian persuasion perch behind glass on one shelf, while short and tall vases sit improbably paired on another.  In the heavily curtained gloom, you would make out a large desk in the centre of the room, smog-stained windows to the south, and the only door to the north.  West; a fireplace with, among other things, a skull upon the mantle and a thrice bevel-edged mirror above it.  To the right side of this, a shield bearing the crest of a black eagle sports a matching sword in its sheath.

To the east, the fourth wall.  A large scale flock of dark chocolate fleur-de-lys motif.  On the left side, someone has applied a hardcore propellant in the form of a whimsical visage.  Michigan, an expert would say, zinc.

And, if you were the occupant, you would duck surreptitiously when you hear the sharp metallic snap of a key in the lock.  Peering out of the merest crack dared, you would see the two men enter and step softly into the room; the first long and lean with movements so silent, so furtive, you would be reminded of a trained bloodhound picking up a scent... the other; short and strong with a military countenance that serves so well as to nearly cover the fact that he practically bounces with excitement around the first, like a puppy.  With the talents of amazing criminals, they begin to make their way toward the one cupboard in a dark corner that stands a little out from the wall like obvious hiding place.

“Well, Watson,” you hear a darkly melodic voice whisper, “perhaps we shall have our bird today after all.”

You make no sound, but the first halts his step abruptly, stilling his companion protectively behind him.  The second stiffens, wiry sinew straining in preparation to leap into action nonetheless.  In the dimness, it is impossible to tell if his flickable little face flushes when the hand of his companion steals into his and gives it a reassuring shake, as if to say that the situation was within his powers.  They stand frozen, listening... then inch forward again, hand-in-hand, as befits two bros on a bad-ass stake-out.

If you were the occupant, you might wait eagerly, heart in your mouth, for someone to cut the sexual tension that hangs like a juicy musk in the closed room.  But you aren’t the occupant... it is another woman that suddenly springs forth—not from the cupboard, but from the trapdoor in the floor—brandishing her long-barreled Colt Double Action and yelling, “Stand and DELIVER, good yeomen!  Be copy now to men of grosser blood and teach them how TO WAR!”

Yes.  THAT one.

John draws his SIG, but he’s too late—perhaps it is the extra second required to let go of Sherlock’s hand, because normally, he’d have no difficulty out-drawing an amateur that had to Google the very names of the guns they are using—and before he can take the shot, he feels a sudden hot sear, as if a red hot iron has been pressed to his thigh. 

As he falls to the floor, Sherlock grabs the P226R.  He does not, however, take any time to pistol-whip the offender, as he is so fervent in his desire to slide his wiry arms around his friend.

“You’re not hurt, John?!  For the sake of a-ludicrous-fantasy-designed-to-provide-a-career-opportunity-for-the-family-idiot PLEASE say that you are not hurt!”

“It’s nothing, Sherlock,” John gasps, laying back in pain.  “It’s...”

But, just to be sure, the world’s floofiest-haired consulting detective rips John’s trousers open right up to the shockingly red underoos and inspects the wound.  And it’s a good thing, too.  Because it’s not merely a scratch.  Blood spurts like a jet of juice, making a peak of fountaining fluid.  “I think it’s your femoral.  What do I do?!”

“Put your hands... here, Nurse,” John directs him weakly.

Sherlock clamps down, choking off the flow.  “We never should have come here.”

“But we did.  I regret... nothing...” the army doctor is going pale.  “It’s worth this wound...”

“John, no...”

“I think I’m fading...”

“Hang on.  I just wanna tell you how I’m feeling... gotta make you understand...”  Still pressing his hands to John’s thigh, Sherlock looks deep within his eyes and says gravely, “I’m never gonna give you up.”

John sits up.  “Wait.  What?”

“Never gonna let you down.” Sherlock’s eyes are brimming with pain, “Never gonna run around and desert you.”

Martin scowls.  “That’s...”

“Never gonna make you cry.”  Ben’s face contorts with the ineffectual effort of resisting.  “Never gonna say goodbye—“

“Oh for Christsakes...”  The injured man rolls his eyes skyward.  “CUT!”

Pike shoulders the trapdoor with one arm while she loses the battle of sniggering silently into her hand and wiping the mirth from her cheeks.  Then she crawls out, collapsing on the floor beside them and clutching her stomach.  “Stop,” she gasps, choking on giggles.  “I can’t take anymore—“

The shorter man glares, baring his teeth as he tries to stand.  The taller remains seated, merely incredulous.  “Did you just make us Rick Roll your audience?”

The strange and languid creature and tries to collect herself.  “I had the notion to do up The Garridebs something like this ages ago.  Late in twenty-sixteen, I think.  Never got around to it.”  She finishes drying her eyes on her sleeve.  “Thank god!  I mean... at the time, I didn’t think the hiatus was going to be this long, so, yeah... it wouldn’t have been very funny then—“

“It’s not funny NOW!” Martin shouts, staggering to his feet, clutching his bloody trousers.  “You just shot me!”

She waves him off, reaching behind herself to tuck the Colt away in the back of her pants.  “This is fan fiction.  It’s the literary equivalent of firing a blank.”

As he looks down, the blood magically disappears from his clothing and hands.  Martin looks at his co-lead in exasperation, as he begins an indignant stomp towards the door.  With an I-am-done-with-this-shit sweep of his arm, he shouts, “What now: ‘Do the Astley Arm-swing... you’re a cunt if you don’t?’”  He turns, raising his voice further before slamming himself out, “This ISN’T FUN ANYMORE!”

Pike startles, in spite of herself, wondering how much of the vehemence is channeled from a genuine place.  She chuckles anew and grins at Ben.  “He’s rather good, isn’t he?  On and off.  I guess I could make him come back in a minute with a line like: ‘It have to be Really Special’, but, truth be told, I’m half-afraid he’s serious.”

Ben looks down at the floor, suppressing a small smile.  “Hush, acushla,” he mutters.  We’re trying to build something here.”

“Oh, that ship has sailed, my Floofy-haired friend.”  She draws up her knees and casts a sweeping glance around the room they are not in before continuing the conversation they are not having together.  “It’s strange.”

“I’m not doing the mystic portals thing for you—“

“Hmm?  Oh, not Strange.  It’s weird, I mean.”  She looks at his face.  “I’ve spent far more of my leisure time than I care to admit writing about your cheekbones and other attributes of your physique and yet the whole crux of why this story matters to me is because of the indifference I hold your physique’s particular attributes in.  And yet...”  Pike scowls.  “Don’t take this the wrong way...”

Ben looks at his watch in long-suffering bemusement.  “I’ll try not to.”

“...it’s impossible not to be curious.”

“Well, this is the place for curiosities.” 

“In what you think,” she clarifies.  “In what you think of what you’ve built.”  Ben is silent.  Of course he is.  Pike doesn’t have this data; merely suppositions.  They aren’t dissimilar, after all.  About the same age; as are their first-borns.  Day-jobs.  Personal adventures.  They both live on a pale blue dot and probably put their trousers on the same way.  They’re both acquainted with enough Bard to have an appreciation of five-act structure.  But it’s hard to guess what he really thinks and no DVD extras are ever going to give the full fly-on-the-wall perspective to those read-throughs. “I would have thought anyone invested as deeply as you would be disappointed in a script that didn’t have more...”

He sighs, standing and turning toward the door.   “Fulfillment?  Romance?  Representation?”  He’s rather sick of this invective in fan-mail and con Q & As and moves to down-play these interactions more than ever.

“Simplicity.”

He pauses, raising a surprised eyebrow, having not encountered this perspective before.  But this is where she differs; that first-hand experience of telling this particular tale as necessity.  Giving an audience what they want is one thing; giving them what they don’t is quite another.  Deep waters; many layers down.  Turbulence is a double-edged sword... as much as you are at its mercy, turbulence is also somewhat at yours.  Your limbs can entangle or propel.  You can surface with waves or with ripples.  But at a certain point, there’s no more tricks, there’s no more time, there’s no more air.  You just have to swim and make for clear waters.  The corner of his mouth quirks in agreement has he mulls over this one word and she knows she’s momentarily got him.  It’s not much of a tell; none of Emilia’s bold sarcasm, to be sure... but the fourth wall drops for a scant moment and she leaps on it: “Hey.  You’ve given me a story.  Let me repay in kind...”

The wall begins to slam back down.  “I really must be g—“

“Once upon a time there was a young man—let’s call him Ivan—that dreaded going home for the holidays.  He and his father didn’t get on so well and it always made for an awkward visit between semesters.  They didn’t fight or anything; just didn’t have much in common.  Dear ol’ da was kinda rough around the edges and Ivan... wasn’t.  The kid preferred tea over coffee, you might say.  But family is family, right?  They got on well enough that they could both stare at the telly together.”

“Let me guess: New Year’s 2012, Ivan gets Ivan Senior interested in this BBC mystery show that he likes?”

“Oh, you’re rather good.”

“You’re rather obvious.”

“Hang in there.  There’s a twist at the end.  So, Ivan’s dad rather likes the series.  When Ivan goes back to school, they even talk and text each other about the later episodes.  By Series Three, he’s really into it.  Despite being a traditionalist Doyle fan, he thinks this updated version is spot on—“

“Your Brit-isms are about as natural as my American accent, you know.”

“—what with the clever adventures and snappy dialogue and all.  He finds the Bride a bit weird, but hangs in there because his son likes the show so much and even old-school guys can handle a bit of AU done properly, right?  But then they get to Series Four.  Senior hates it.  It’s way over-the-top; it’s not consistent in plotlines or character traits... it’s not even consistent with the laws of physics, which is a real disgrace, considering the original’s core theme was scientific objectivity—“

Ben interjects,  “Ah.  But maybe Ivan’s father simply didn’t understand the symbolism and...” He stops himself.

“And he’ll finally get it when Series Five holds its half-hour ‘Council-of-Elrond’ to spoon-feed us all the deets we missed?”

“Well.  IF there is a Series Five.  We haven’t closed the door on it; we just—“

Pike rubs her forehead tiredly and leans back in her pose, sighing deeply.  “Ivan Senior closed the door on you.  He didn’t finish watching Final Problem.  He won’t want to watch another series.  When and IF he hears about the eventual embodiment of this Holmes and Watson, it will be in an out-of-context sound-bite in a review or a joke, which is the way that most of his ilk will hear about it.  At this point, the likelihood that he will ever discuss it with his son is... well.  Improbable, wouldn’t you say?”

Ben opens his mouth in protest, then closes it.  Mostly because this is Pike’s fic and she can make him do whatever she wants.  But partly because her argument is airtight.

“Making it complex was the easy part,” she explains, softly.  “The real challenge is to make it simple again.” 

After a thoughtful pause, he asks; “So.  What’s the twist, then?”

She smiles and lays a finger to her lips.  “Spoilers.  I wonder... have they told you how yet?  Maybe they don’t know; maybe they really are flying blind now.  I’d be annoyed if I were you.  Succeed or fail; you are the face of this thing—”

“Oh.  Em.  Geeee!” a voice behind them squees.  “It’s really YOU!”

Turning in shock, Pike sees what Benedict Freakin’ Cumberbatch is suddenly looking at over her shoulder; a young woman in a colourful hand-knit jumper climbing up out of the hole in the floor.  She barely gets to her feet before she is bouncing on tip-toes and flapping her hands like a rabid raccoon.

“What the—“  The older woman frowns, casting a shrewd glance around her little alcove of the Archive.  I didn’t invite you in here...

“I am, like, so totally like your Number One Fan,” the girl blurts, pushing past Pike like she’s not even there and stopping short of hugging Ben... albeit only out of the respect one would show a priceless religious artifact.  She tugs at her jumper, which Pike can now see is adorned with a stitch-pattern of rectangular magnifying glasses and mini deerstalkers.  Right at the centre of town is an enormous heart patch in pinkish satin.  “I made this myself.  My friends say I look a bit like Molly...”

Ben flashes a BAFTA-winning smile.  “It’s lovely.  Yes, you do, a bit.  Let me guess... she’s your favourite character?”

Pike rolls her eyes.  No shit, Sherlock.  “Oh, why don’t we ALL just say hello...” she mutters under her breath.

Heart glows as effectually as a Himalayan salt crystal lamp, holding a bashful hand up to her cheek and, in the turning of her head, seems to notice Pike for the first time.  “Sorry.  Am I interrupting anything?”  She gives her half a second to draw breath in response, before blazing onward with the not-as-tall-in-person man who’s inching casually toward the door.  “I know you probably can’t tell me, but can I ask you a couple questions?”

“No stopping you apparently,” Pike sighs to herself, turning from them to seat herself at the desk.  She opens the drawer and rummages, hoping for a flask of something peaty.  All she can find is a juice box.  She sets it on the desk and reaches for the notebook and pencil.  Trying to ignore the simpering Q & A, she begins to write.

“You can ask,” Ben beguiles.

“Do you guys really not know if there will be a Series Five yet?  It’s just, like, such a shame to do all that build-up and then they never really get together!”  Heart babbles.  “I know they made it look like he’ll get with Irene Adler, but I think that’s just a ruse.” 

Pike looks at Ben pointedly over Heart’s woolly shoulder.  It is a real fucking shame, isn’t it?

“I think, no matter what happens, Molly is truly key to Sherlock’s heart,” he responds carefully, sticking to script and prompting a little squeal of delight from his captive audience. 

Oh my God, the older woman groans inwardly, with a frustrated scribble.  The pencil lead snaps.  Get out of my fiction, Cumberbint!

“Oh, I knew it!  They are SO meant for each other.  And... sorry... can I just ask...?”

Off you pop, genius.  More rummaging.  Damnit.  No sharpener.

“Why did Series Four have to suck so bad?”

Ben’s smile strains, just perceptibly.  “I.  Uh—“  He twitches his gaze briefly to Pike.

She snorts into her hand.  Sherlolly decided that on her own.  Maybe I was too hasty to judge her.

“I mean... Molly was getting to be pretty bad-ass.  Like when she slapped him for doing drugs.  And then, all of a sudden, she’s all nervous and wall-flowery again.  And it wasn’t just her... almost everybody’s out of character.  John Watson is an honourable man, not a cheater...” 

Behind Heart’s back, Pike mimes a slow clap. 

“...Mycroft’s not a pussy!  And most of Eurus’s story doesn’t even make sense!”

Well, it actually does, but the fact that 95% of the audience doesn’t understand who she really is sort of negates that fact, so, yeah.  Testify, sister!

“Plus the spy stuff... the explosion... the kid in the well... it’s all very rip-off Hollywoodish, you know?  Like, we sort of expect better from BBC...”

Amen.

“Well,” Cumberbatch mollifies, “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Oh, no!  I thought you were great.  I really liked your Shakespeare speech.”  Heart blushes anew.

“Maybe,” Pike interjects, “it’ll all be restored to form when Series Five airs.”

“We can only hope,” Ben nods, backing toward the door.  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going...”  And with a rattle of the doorknob that is just slightly too urgent, he departs the way Martin has gone.

Heart frowns.  “Oh no, do you think I insulted him?  It’s not like it’s his fault.”

Pike shrugs.  “He’s a big boy; I think he’ll survive.”  Now, how am I going to get rid of you?  “Listen,” she imparts, candidly, “I know you’ve invested a lot into your belief that Sherlock falls in love with Molly.  But you might have to let go of that belief and admit that you are just seeing what you want to see, not what is objectively there.”

Heart casts a more scrutinizing eye over Pike.  “Oh,” she says, with slow realization.  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“I’m one of me.”

“Sherlock and John are not gay.  Maybe that’s you just seeing what you want to see.  You don’t need to hate-on Molly because of it.”

“I don’t hate Molly... she’s one of my favourite characters too, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep.  I just love how... sanguine she is.”  Pike tilts her head toward the door.  “Hey, why didn’t you ask for his autograph?”

The colour drains from Heart’s face.  And with a frenzied “Oh shit!” she turns and runs after him.

The room’s remaining occupant takes some time now to survey her surroundings.  For a moment, she regrets Heart’s departure, now that she has a strong desire to talk some shop.  Perhaps they could’ve found some common ground after all.  Then, remembering the flexibility of this playground, she chooses another set of companions to spit-ball with.  She turns her palms upward to regard the faintly glowing circles there beneath her skin.  “Mystic portals, huh?”  She stands in the bare space in front of the hearth and om’s her thumb and forefingers together before writhing her arms around in a spirited wax-on-wax-off.  

Nothing happens.

“Two of them work here as orderlies, so it shouldn’t be hard to sneak the third one in,” she mutters.

But then a glowing golden portal opens, parallel to the ceiling and through it, three men—bound, gagged and hung—drop through sharply with a snic snic snic of their ropes.  Pike smiles and reaches to the wall beside her.  She lifts the rapier from its housing over the shield, unsheathes it and circles them slowly.  “Here we are now. ”  She sweeps the blade overhead and deftly slices their tethers, watching each thud to the floor.  “Entertain us.”

They kneel in crumpled heaps, shaking heads and gasping for breath.

“Nathan,” she murmurs, freeing his hands—none too gently—with the sword, “wears glasses.  No kickback.  No scars.”

And the second.  “Howard.  Life-long drunk.  C’mon; the gin blossoms aren’t that bad.” He coughs, and she can’t resist flicking his nose playfully as she frees his gag, “Oh, boop.  You’ll be fine.” 

And the third.  Alex.  Recent laser-eye, but not quite accustomed to the new routine.  Views himself in a new light.  “So.”  She lingers here as she frees his bonds, peering curiously into unfamiliar eyes.  “You pulled the trigger, huh?”  She grins, conspiratorially.  “You shouldn’t have let them fly alone.” 

“Who the hell are you?"

“Hello.” Pike lunges gracefully back to where Nathan is running fat fingers through sweaty curls and mimes drawing a faint line with the sword across his ruddy cheek.  “My name is Esox Lucius.  You killed my franchise.  Prepare to— aw shucks.  That was truly terrible, but I couldn’t resist.”  She then sits on the corner of the desk and pivots the rapier between her feet, rolling its ricasso between the edge of her palms, the point making a faint scritch as it bores into the wooden floor.  “I’m canon fodder in the Invisible Army.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” Howard gasps, rubbing his neck, “that we’re on the same side?”

“I seriously doubt you see it that way.”  Pike leans back in her pose on the desk, swinging her legs.  “Anyway... what an unforgettable yarn you’ve spun.  I’ve got one for you as well.  Twists for days.”

“Delightful as that sounds, we’ve got things to—“

“Once upon a time,” she narrates, “there were Three Garridebs, who thought they’d do something ground-breaking and make history.  Unfortunately, their plot was rather transparent to some and risked exposure too soon.  So they subverted the hell out of those expectations, brilliantly confusing their quarry in a dozen different ways.  And it was great.  But not good.  Sorry... brief aside: I think you had Lestrade cash-in on that line too early.  Anyway, here’s a final problem for you: Everyone’s a Critic!  Except the empty-headed sycophants paid off by Auntie Beeb, but you’re smart enough to know the difference.  We don’t need a time machine to imagine the hot mess of reviews in 2021, do we?”

There is barely a reaction to this.  Barely.  But Pike knew this much already; Howard is the better actor, of course.

“ ‘BBC Breaks Ground with Unexpected Bombshell That Fans have Been Expecting for Years!’  Um, too long.  ‘Hartswood Noxiously Flails Out More Appalling Claptrap’ !” She wrinkles up her nose.  “No, give me a minute.  I stole most of that from Chris Stevens.  I can do better.  ‘Much-belated Woke-lock Avoids Predictability Via Absurdity’ ?  Naw, it’d be a bit of an insult to Camus to dub you absurd.  Let me think...”

Alex glances at the other two.  “This is the ‘One-Word’ chick?  She seems kinda verbose to me.”

Pike rubs her temples and hums, “Brevity is the soul of wit... There’s got to be a concise way to express my gratitude for your media representation of a queer story in such a realistic and dignified manner...” Her eyes snap open again.  “Oh!  Got it.  How about this: ‘Sherlock Series 5: Weak Tea.’ ”

“I think we get your point.”

“I hope so.  I’m not going to top that one.  I can tell by your smug mugs, though, that you think you’ve got a solution.”  She dons a bad Scottish accent, as she reaches for the juice box.  “Don’ tell me... there’s som’thin’ noh’body’s noh’iced?”

Nathan scowls.  “There are only so many hints we can drop about loose lips sinking ships you know.”

Pike rolls her eyes, unwrapping the straw.  “So what: sit pretty and shut up while we all wait for the big clever man to un-bollocks his flight plan?  ‘Help me, please!  Everyone's asleep... they won’t wake up and I’m scared!’ ”  After knocking the Paisley lilt up a youthful octave with this last, she takes a long deliberate suck of the juice box before returning to her own voice:  “Listen.  I know some fans haven’t made it easy for you, but you can’t monopolize a conversation for a decade and not expect some talk.  People talk.  A good writer—y’know, like Joss or Russell— could’ve rolled with those punches without burning the whole fucking flat down, you dirty bugger.”

“You know that insult means something different in our country, right?”  Nathan frowns suddenly, catching the actual jibe.  “Russell?!  There’s no way he could pull something like this off!”

“Prove it, then, Captain-my-Captain.  You’ve got passengers on your plane sitting to the right and the left and it’d be nice if the majority of both sides survived to applaud your efforts.  You can’t crash in the ocean, or it’s gonna bug you to your grave that you gave up.  You can’t crash on land because it obviously does matter to you what people say when they talk.  I’m curious as hell to see if you truly do know how to touch down without looking like a Johnny-cum-lately fool.  Let’s face it, blood sucker; you’re usually pretty good at take-off, but you almost never stick the landing, do you?  You get too woolly... too messy.”

“Be that as it may,” Howard chimes back in, “we don’t work with free-lancers.”

She lifts the rapier with a flourish; discarding the blade as she adroitly disconnects the pommel, the encased pen sliding out between her fingers.  “Of course not; that would be something new.  Good luck, gentlemen.”  She draws a circle in the air with her pen and a corresponding one opens with a golden glow beneath their feet.  As they momentarily hover above it like so many Wile-E-Coyotes, she bids them adieu; “Pistols at dawn.”

The portal sucks them down and swirls shut.  In the returning quiet of the room, Pike settles herself into the chair and exhales.  She sits, staring, at the blank page before her.  It should be easy to let the words pour out, but now this.  She’ll give them that much; this IS the hard part.  Can it even be done?  Can it still subvert without destroying?  Can it avoid devolving into a terrible rom-com?  Can it be done in a realistically filmable fashion, in only ninety minutes of screen time, if need be?  She makes a couple of stilted jabs at Scene One before admitting to herself that she’s already got writer’s block.  Overall, she knows how she’d do it, but the devil, as always, is in the details.  This sort of thing takes work and research and pieces of yourself that you may not be keen to give up.

In the gathering gloom of doubt, the questions creep back in.

What on earth would you do with it anyway?!

Don’t know.  Haven’t thought that far ahead.  Probably nothing. 

Who’s it for?

Don’t know.  Probably nobody.  Maybe someone like me... like me, five years ago.

Oh, for Godsakes.  WHY?!

Because it’s just a challenge... a bee in my bonnet.  A riddle; a puzzle. Why does a bird fly?  Why does a fish ride a bicycle?  Why does an elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist or the dusky dusk?!  Why is a raven like a writing desk?

But doubt is a stern judge when one is alone.

She stands, mentally shaking off the cobwebs.  Because the Good Story matters.  And I can have one; one way or another. 

Pike approaches the fireplace, slowing as she reaches the skull sitting there, facing south.  Desiring the illusion of counsel, or perhaps simply company, she tilts her own head to face it.  Unable to read its blanched expression, unable to discern whether the orbits regard her with mockery, reproach or with nothing at all, she raises a tentative hand to touch it, to turn it back toward her... then, dejected at this vain endeavor, begins to return her feeble limb to her side. 

This motion has slid her sleeve partially up her wrist, and the inked message that appears on it flashes in the mirror: 

revetahw

sniaMer

revEwoh

elbaborpmi

Her gaze lifts and greets the one above.  The woman in the mirror is older, and if such a thing were even possible, plainer.  A comfortable shirt, in a colour that suits her.  Hair mousey, with the first stray silvers here and there, quite possibly from the decade or so in healthcare.  The frown-lines, however, are somehow improbably lessened, while the smile lines are deep.  The tan-lines are of one who never bothers with a salon and browns incidentally in the garden, chasing at least one child.  Though there is the faint suggestion of the habitual wearing of both ring and necklace, she presently wears neither. 

Pike smiles, basking in the reflected result. “Hello Dale.”

“Hello Pike.”

Dale cocks her head and skirts her fingers over the tattoo on her right wrist before rolling up her sleeves, in decisive riveter fashion.   “You’ve got work to do...” 

“...the five double-yous, gumshoe...”

“...and the only question that remains is...”

“Who are you?”

At this third voice, Dale Pike turns.  Heart has reappeared in the doorway and is peering at her curiously.  “Nobody important,” she assures her, reflexively.

“When.”  The figure narrows her eyes slightly, re-entering the room. “You said when, not if.  And he didn’t correct you.”

Pike chuckles.  “They occasionally slip up.  It’s gotta be hard, you know?”  She returns to the desk, resuming her place at the notebook.  “Sometimes its almost like they want to get caught.”

“You don’t know for certain,” Heart says, skeptically.  “And even if you did think they were returning, you couldn’t possibly know the date.”

Pike begins to scribble on the page.  “I once posted a short story—in one-word-test fashion, no less—about how the show-runners would choose to do Series Four in a way that would be a big mistake.  About how audiences would get the meaning twisted.  That most people would end up talking about Sherlock in contempt and confusion.  And about how fans jumping through hoops for clues like a bunch of puppets would muddy the damn water so much, it would ruin the overall point of the story... though, truthfully, that bit was probably too meta for most of my readers to get at the time.”

“Oh, smell you later, Click-bait,” Heart snorts, turning back toward the door.  “Tons of critics wrote that same thing after—“

“I did it in 2015.”

Heart pauses, hand on the knob.  Looks back. 

The woman at the desk works away, nose nonchalantly in her notebook.  “But.  What do I know?”  She tries to ignore the uninvited interloper and focuses on the page.  She hears footsteps, feels eyes reading over her shoulder.  Looks up.

Heart shrugs.  “The Game is Now is two hundred bucks and a plane ticket.  You’re free entertainment.  Alright, smarty-pants.  Are you going to make with the answer, or just write silly scenes?”

Pike shakes her head, scribbling.  “Sorry.  This is how I roll.”

“You could just do a blog or something.  You on Reddit?  Or Tumblr?”

A deep scowl.  “Rabbit-hole—no.  Rabbit warren.  Of the Watership Down variety.  With dead-ends.  And Owsla... and bunny’s-inhubunnity-to-bunny, and—Look.”  She gestures with her hands, twirling the end of the pen.  “You can’t just tell people something and expect them to believe you.  Sometimes you have to show them... take them on an adventure of sorts with you... and let them find the answer for themselves.  It’s not so much the destination, as the—“

“You don’t know how to use Tumblr, do you?”

Dale looks back down, re-absorbing herself in her writing.  “Oh, shut up.”

Heart takes out her phone.  “Here, it’s so easy to use, it’s... well.  It’s hard to explain...”  She pauses, typing and swiping for a few minutes, trying to research their mutual query.  “Huh.  What’s Rouge?  Rouge... like a red herring?  This isn’t what you’re—“

“A self-professed Sherlockian should immediately notice something about the year for that date.”

“What year?  There isn’t one—“

“Precisely.”

Heart rolls her eyes, laughing.  “It’s background.  Filler.  You dork.” She shakes her head, chiding herself for falling for this.  “There’s nothing else in the show that suggests this date is important.”

Pike leans back in her chair and folds her arms.  “Ok.  Pretend you’re clever—“

“Oh, thanks.”

“—and you’re making a mystery show.  And you want it to be “ground-breaking”... not just some episode-by-episode drivel.  You’d probably have a grand mystery that was woven through the whole damn thing, wouldn’t you?  Ergo, vis-à-vis.  Concordantly!  In series one, you know what that grand plan is.  So you clue to it. Over and over.  Something so benign and silly that people overlook it.  And something so prolific, it is virtually branding.”

Heart raises her eyebrows impatiently.  “And...?”

“Something,” Pike relishes this moment, “staring you right in the—“

“What clue?!” says a new voice. “Since Series 1?!  Something we haven’t noticed?! That’s not possible... I’ve watched the entire series 16 times...”

Both women startle briefly and turn to watch the figure climbing out of the trapdoor with intense, red-rimmed eyes. This one wears a jersey-tee with a short, round-headed game piece on it.  Off-balance, Dale starts to answer, “it’s not so much that nobody’s noticed it; they just miss why it’s important...”. But even as she says this, Dale has a sinking feeling, and back-pedals under the intensity of this woman’s stare. “Or it really is just a coincidence—“

The newcomer tips her head back and claws the air in frustration, as she gets to her feet. “ARRRG!  What do we say about COINCIDENCE?!”

Pike tiredly pinches the bridge of her nose beneath her glasses and murmurs to Heart, “Please tell me this is not still going on...”

“I don’t know what this is,” Heart whispers back nervously. “Is this... like the Christian Slater jacket thing?”

“Do you know,” Arg interrogates them both, “what you get if you divide the number of letters in every Blind Baker book title with the number of leaves in a fleur-de-lys pattern?!”

“I really hope it isn’t pi,” Dale tries to joke. 

Arg spreads her fingers out in a “poof” of blowing their collective minds. “All. Rational. Numbers.”  She taps her own temple, squinting. “But then, you knew that, didn’t you, because you’re in on it—“

“No, that’s enough.”  Pike shakes her head firmly and puts on her best mom voice; indicating their immediate location with a sweeping finger. “Not in my house. You want to do that, young lady, go elsewhere... I am NOT kidding.”  She lines her fingers back up into mystic-portals mode but nods toward the door, inviting Arg to choose this exit of her own volition. 

Arg’s mouth draws into a firm line. “I need—“

“I know you’ve invested a lot,” Dale says, in a gentler tone, “into the belief that BBC’s release of more Sherlock is contingent upon fan sleuthing.  It isn’t.  They will do what they damn-well please, when it damn-well pleases them.  And take your money in the process, so if you’re going to play, you should at least be having fun and this,” she casts a sweeping wave over Arg’s exhausted countenance, “doesn’t look like fun to me.”

Arg sighs heavily and nods to her in what looks like acquiescence before exiting the door, coming back in a moment later in a hat, glasses and different shirt, proceeding to sit against the wall and stare at Pike from across the room.

“This is weird,” Heart whispers.

“This is fandom,” Pike agrees.

“How would you know...” growls yet another, and the figure rising from the trapdoor this time wastes no time in striding to the desk, grabbing Pike’s notebook and rending it deftly in two, “...what Fandom is, you lying, manipulative sociopath?”  This woman wears her hair in a beehive that wiggles lividly as she tosses the torn paper on the desk.  “Why don’t you just delete yourself?!“

Dale takes a long breath and casts a glance at the skull and then the mirror and speaks quietly.  “I’ve had a good deal of time to reflect upon what identity means since Series Four and the conclusion I came to was this: I have a right to mine.”  She smiles wryly and appeals to the sense of humour deep within Fury’s better nature, “As much as Christian Slater’s jacket does, anyway.”

It doesn’t work.  “No one is interested in your grammatically awkward, over-ellipsed, non-Beta’d bullshit,” the other snaps, then casts a glance at Arg.  “Well.  No one should be.”

Pike tries again, abiding like Jeff Bridges, “But I’ve got information, man.  New shit has come to light!”  She mimes taking a casual sip of a White Russian, “It’s a complicated case... lotta ins... lotta outs...”

“Save it, attention-whore, you’re worse than those queer-baiting bastards at BBC.”

Heart looks at Pike incredulously.  “Jesus.  What the hell did you do?”

“I was too Mark Gatiss,” Pike sighs, with an it’s-a-long-story eye-roll, “and yet, not Mark Gaitss enough.”

“Let’s not forget the parodying of fans,” Fury reminds her, “which you’re repeating right now.”

But it really is kinda irresistible... and, if you think I’M a troll, you’ve probably never actually had a real one.   Pike echoes an earlier story’s theme; “You lot are merely general constructs of ideas.”  She casts a side-long smile at the mirror.  “As am I.”

“Oh, really?!  Because mine’s feeling a tad specific...”

Pike cocks her head.  “Nah.  Bit narrower field, maybe.  The easily-triggered Snowflake Sherlockians are quite a fly in the ointment, if you take the opinion of those in Hashtag-Borebury and the like.  I just think it’s a shame that the truly clever fans are the ones with a reputation for being a delusional mess.  Wouldn’t it be nice to turn those tables with some uncanny prescience?”  She tries to twirl the pen around in her fingers, flubs it and sheepishly grins as it rolls on the floor.  “But in order to pull that off, the Fandom has to lighten up a bit.  Life is too tragic not to employ comedy.  Learn to drink from the poisoned chalice and you’ll survive every time.  Besides, be honest: the main reason you dislike me is not because of my weak-ass jokes, but my advocacy for Good Mary.”

“She was an evil bitch who sunk her claws in John to trap him in marriage forever.  She was manipulative and verbally abusive to him; she belittled him—“

“She’s an independent and pragmatic woman who’d known him for less than two years; I think she’d have moved on just fine, as long as he did right by Rosie.  As for her cheeky sass; yeah... she’s about on par with Sherlock.  No, wait.  Sherlock’s worse.  Yep.  Definitely more of an arsehole, especially in the beginning.  So, you’re saying that’s okay, but only if you have floofy hair, cheekbones and belong in the right shipping pair?”

“She shot his best friend!”

“Bit of a mixed message, that.” Pike concedes.  Internally, she makes a list of everyone she’d shoot if her child was under threat.  It includes... everyone.  Yep.  Everyone.  But since that angle is superfluous to the point, Dale opens up her arms, in an expansive gesture.  “More importantly though; what plays better in mainstream television?  ‘She’s good... oh, no! she’s bad... ah, wait; she’s nuanced.’  And, that’s where you stop changing her, because if you swing the pendulum back to bad again, the average viewer or critic will think it’s stupid.  Anyway, which is more valuable in this case...” Dale tips her head briefly in Heart’s direction for Fury’s benefit; “...Mary the one-dimensional antagonist, or Mary the supportive ally?”

“Oh please cut the ‘insider’ crap.  You don’t know.”

But I do, Dale thinks, remembering her much-belated second viewing of the Lying Detective.  She had watched the strain in John’s jaw as he’d declared who he wanted to be.  And the loosening of Mary’s, as she’d conceded get the hell on with it.  And privately wanted to applaud Martin and Amanda.  Oh, you guys nailed it.  That’s exactly what that moment looks like, on both counts. 

The balance of probability is this: Pike’s only ever made one error in predictive deduction.  She’s always known why Sherlock would take the hat off, at the thundering verge of the Reichenbach.

It’s only recently that she has understood why he put it back on.

And it is what it is.

However.  These sorts of stories are not of value here.  Dale returns herself to presenting the favored currency.  “Evil-Mary directs people way too far down the EMP-rabbit-hole.  As much as I like Mary’s character, I wouldn’t grant her the power of sending Sherlock into a multiple-episode AU.  Stop driveling over her as a master villain; she’s not.  It’s distracting you from seeing who that really is... which is distracting you from seeing the key to the whole damn thing.”

“If I were to take advice about how to solve Sherlock,” Fury scoffs, “it would NOT be from a clueless Canadian woman with a toe-deep understanding of—“

“Am I making you mad?” Pike asks, reaching behind her back with too cheeky a grin.

“You know you are—“

“Like, Rogers-left-Barnes mad?”

“OH, bitch, you DIDN’T—“ Fury steps toward her threateningly.

Pike reaches behind her back and pulls out the gun everyone’s forgotten she had, levels it in Fury’s direction and fires. Heart and Arg shriek and cover their eyes. Fury ducks way too late—because, really: what human can react faster than a bullet?!— and cowers crouched for a moment before realizing that the bullet as passed, quite harmlessly over her head.  Pike nods at its intended destination. “So mad that you can’t see clearly.  Kind of like what we let them do to us.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Fury gasps weakly at Pike, but her voice trails off as she turns to look at the wall behind her, at the smoking hole, dead centre in the spray-painted Smiley’s left eye. 

“Killing me.” The maniac blows off the muzzle. “That’s so three years ago.”  She flicks the safety on and tosses the gun to Fury. You could, I suppose.  Or we could all stop being boring and JUST THINK.

Fury snatched it in mid-air and holds it defensively, fumbling the safety back off, staring at Pike, wide-eyed.  You’re insane.  But she stays her trembling hand, and risks another glance at the spray-painted face. 

Admit it.  Dale’s arms twitch with the urge to grab Fury by the shoulders in jubilation, but she thinks the better of it and tries to keep a courteous distance.  Her lips purse in a barely contained grin. You’ve missed this. The thrill of the chase. “If you were really clever...and you made a show where the theme of every bloody episode is avoiding the dangers of assumption, supposition and lack of objectivity... then one of the original stories would be rather stand-out, wouldn’t it?”

In spite of herself, Fury answers. “One where he fails to solve the case due to his own prejudices...”

“... but it ends happily enough anyway,” Dale nods. “Published in the same volume—same year—as The Final Problem...“

“The Speckled Man!” Arg shouts triumphantly. 

All three stare at her.  “Have you...” Dale asks, after a stunned pause, “...in the last ten years... watched the series 16 times, but not actually read the originals?”

“I will get right on that,” Arg promises gravely, glancing back down at her phone, “after the Contacts get back from their trip to Switzerland.”

Pike turns back to Fury, raising an eyebrow.  “Anyway. Norbury: the surname of a hyperbolically over-acting bit character...?”

“...or a deliberate plant for a very obvious hash-tag?”  Fury almost huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Those cheeky bastards.”

“My friend did The-Game-Is-Now,” Heart adds.  “Got a souvenir picture sitting on the couch, right under the yellow face.”

“Everyone gets a picture of it.”  Dale looks at both of them pointedly.  “What do you think: would Mofftiss be the type that would enjoy rubbing their fan’s noses in it?  So.  Suppose you...“ she mimes Frisbee-ing a deerstalker into a waterfall “...start the clock.  Coincidentally, on the same day for both continental audiences for the first time.  And then count forward that number of days...”

Heart and Arg pull up calendars and Pike hears them counting under their breaths.  After a minute, she says, “Yeah... that takes a while.  It’s, um.  Faster if you use a spreadsheet.”

Fury has already taken out her mobile and joined the other two in calculations. “Wow,” she finally admits. “That’s—“

“—a hell of a coincidence,” Heart reluctantly agrees. 

Arg is silent, staring at her phone.  The other three eye her nervously, until she notices and glances back up at them.  “Hmm,” she says, slowly.

Dale levels out her now-let’s-just-be-rational-about-this hands.  “It’s—“

“Kind of weak tea, don’t you think?” Arg scoffs.  She swipes left and the faint sounds of Aziraphale-Being Sassy-for-15-Minutes tinnies weakly from her speakers.

Pike, Heart and Fury release the collectively held breath.  Without drawing Arg’s further attention to her, Pike politely takes Fury’s phone and pulls up a screen-shot of fourth-series John in front of his blog.  She quietly points out the Reebus clue on his hit-counter.  “There’s probably others.  I haven’t looked extensively.”

“I still don’t see how this makes them gay,” Heart sighs.

The beehive wearer folds her arms across her chest and eyes Pike warily, taking her phone back  “Alright.  Good catch.  But this doesn’t make you one of us.  You’ve never—“

“Let me tell you a story.”

“Ugh.  I don’t suppose there’s a way to stop you, is there?”

“Hang in there.  There’s a twist at the end.  Once upon a time, there was a fan who worked in science terms, not arts.  They sought the question, not the answer.  They wrote a little fiction that somehow solved the Final Problem by landing the plane with minimal casualties.  This story eventually found its way, in extremely improbable fashion, into the hands of two important men on another continent.  These men had each held a different view of the characters, but something in the writer’s words altered both their minds, and then they spoke about this together.  And the outcome changed history.”

Fury stares at Pike incredulously for a moment, then face-palms.  Laughs.  “You are a sociopath.  Complete with delusions of grandeur that your opinion matters to a BBC show-runner.  You’re trying to tell us that—of all fans—that person could be you?!” she chuckles.

Pike scowls, beginning to lose patience with Fury.  “No.  That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Who, then, smart-arse?”

This time, Dale does take her firmly by the shoulders.  “Anyone.”

Fury holds her gaze for a moment, silent, considering.  Then wriggles Pike’s hands off with a shrug, so the older woman walks back to the table, picking up her torn pieces of paper along the way.  “It’s like I’ve always told you,” she addresses all three women behind her, “the minutiae helps.  But you need the bird’s eye view.  And once you figure it out, you can see the whole landscape laid out before you... the blaze of light in every word.  For the record, I still think The Powers That Be are going to ultimately screw it up.  But I have to concede: at this moment in time, a good story is still possible.  And so,” she begins to turn back around, “I still believe in Sher—”

The room is empty.  Heart, Arg and Fury are gone, as if they were never there.  She feels the uncomfortable sensation of not only being alone, but the sense that she always has been.  Then, a thrill upon her spine tells her to hope to turn again and, consequently, she turns.  In front of the mirror stands another figure she does not recognize, with a blessed face that she does.  A gosht from the past.

“Dale. Fucking. Pike.  You are talking to yourself.”

Dale smiles with relief.  “It’s been a dogg’s age,” she greets Ghost, correcting herself only inwardly: Well.  Almost.

The apparition tilts her head briefly in the direction of the remains of Pike’s notebook.  “Two important men, you said?”

“Undoubtedly.  I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t.”

“Interesting choice of name... Ivan.”  Ghost takes a step closer to her.

“A variation.  One of many, all over the world.”  Pike steps closer as well.

“A real person?”

“A construct of an idea.”

They face each other fully.  It’s good to see you.

“I suppose it’s occurred to you that you might cause a bit of trouble with this?”

“Oh yes.”  Pike grins mischievously. “Wanna cause some more?”

“What if you’re wrong?  What if there is nothing to hope for?”

Ms. Dale F. Pike acquires a serious countenance.  “Then we will have to construct something upon which to rejoice.”  She admonishes Ghost with a look that says As we’ve always done.  “Even if there is nothing to hope for, my friend... there remains hope itself.” 

But at Dale’s gesture for Ghost to come and sit beside her, the spectre sadly declines with a bowed and blurred visage.  “I’m sorry.  You know I’m not here anymore.  Too much water under the bridge.”

Ah. 

Some things from the past, despite all efforts, remain in the past.  You are talking to yourself.  Dale swallows, closing her eyes briefly against the sudden shimmer there for the names she never even knew.  When she inhales and opens them, the figure’s right hand is tenderly offered in a parting shake.  If this were a typical fan-fiction, there might have been some angst at this point.  Perhaps a bit of hurt-comfort or even some fluffy smut.  But it is what it is and she only stiffens her upper lip and extends her own hand.

They are soldiers, after all.

“To the best of times, Pike.”

“It’s been...” she pauses.  Has to make this one count.  “Real.”

Alone now, she stands at the fireplace for a moment, before turning one last time toward the flowered, graffiti’d and fired-upon wall.  Striding there, pen in hand, she leans against it beneath the yellow face, her earlobe cupping the layered surface.

Hears the distant murmur of voices outside. 

Flattens her palms.

And pushes with all her might.

...

Notes:

Beneath their feet, London sleeps.

Pike stands at the rooftop’s edge, breathing in the cold night air with her back to Fury, who briefly considers shoving her off. Instead, she steps up beside the older woman, offering a conciliatory cigarette. “You know, Mary-Sue” she chides, “you really didn’t have to Straw-Man me into being such a one-dimensional bitch. I’m not, you know.”

Pike glances down at it, hesitating—over a decade of work in healthcare separates her from her last transgression—and then takes it gratefully. It’s just the one. And shit... this stuff can be stressful. “I know,” she concedes. “But it’s hard to handle nuance when you’re running out of word count.”

“What do you mean; the limit is—“ Fury glances up. “Oh. You cock.”

Pike flashes that smug-as-shit smile of hers and takes a drag. Then coughs. She needs low-tar.

They smoke together in silence for a minute, inhaling tobacco and the faint hint of roasted chestnuts from a vendor below.

“I’m not saying I’m interested,” Fury says firmly, “but I’m just curious. What do you plan to do with this juicy little nugget of prediction?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m open to suggestions.” Pike leans back with an expansive world’s-our-fuckin-oyster gesture. “The week of Rouge 2020, maybe I’ll mail ‘em some crimson tighties with #OneMoreYear sharpie’d on the fanny.” She chuckles. “Just the thought of a Hartswood secretary opening it is worth the postage.”

“You do know that ‘fanny’ means something different in this country?”

“It be even funnier if I wasn't the only one. No pressure. Just sayin’.”

“It’s not even funny to begin with!”

“Clean ones,” she clarifies, grinning. “De facto ‘Red Pants Day’.” Then she mutters something under her breath that sounds like ‘even-George-Takei-would-laugh-at-that’. She takes another drag. “ ‘When those in power lie, the most subversive thing you can do is’—“

“You could be wrong,” Fury echoes Ghost’s earlier worry. “In fact, you probably are. What if you’re wrong?”

“Ugh. That’s a boring question. So, I look like a goofball—familiar territory there—a couple of you assholes bust my chops, and then life undoubtedly goes on. Here’s a much more interesting question... what if I’m right?” She tries to blow a smoke ring and chokes on it, like the dork she is. Raspily, she murmurs, “Sometimes there’s airplanes we can’t jump out. Sometimes there’s bullshit that don’t work now...”

“Please don’t sing.”

“Got this feeling that you can’t fight... like this city is on fire tonight...”

“Is everything a joke to you?”

“Only the things that matter,” Pike promises solemnly. Then she looks up at the uncommonly star-lit sky and whistles the tune, followed by a triumphant shout; “Oh, c’mon Fury! Queer people know it better than anyone.”

“Know what?”

“That we don’t choose the hand we’re dealt. Just how we play the Game.”