Very Specific Example, But Watching The Central Park Concert That Simon And Garfunkel Gave. It Always

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

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

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

THIS! Yes OMG! I have never felt so seen.

Shout out to autistics with fluctuating empathy!!!!

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

Audiobooks are great, but if you are not a native English speaker you will probably understand even less when you listen to it (at least that’s my experience). So if you have trouble understanding an old English book, get a student edition. At school you probably read classics in your language and at least in germany we have student editions where outdated obscure German words and grammar are explained at the bottom and those exist in English too. ( I think there is something like „Shakespeare no fear“ etc.) Or get a student version in your native language for students studying English, where the text itself is the original, but the annotations are in your language. I know a lot of people are ashamed of buying student versions because they think their English should be good enough, or they won’t have the „real experience“ or something like that… that’s bullshit. You are not a native English speaker, and you are most certainly not an (insert time period of work you’re trying to read) native English speaker so naturally you will have trouble understanding some words, or even the whole text. And if you just read through it without understanding a thing, it will be boring, exhausting and you will gain nothing at all. Let me tell you there are classical German (my native language!) authors I would not dare to touch without an annotated version, because they write in a crazily complicated style in outdated terms. So buy that damn student version and enjoy your classic!

Not to be a pretentious asshole but yes there is a problem with people no longer reading the classics. A lot of the YA literature romance novel crowd perpetuates the myth that the classics are inherently boring and stuffy and there’s nothing you can relate to or learn by reading them. And they’re not. These beautiful universal things we enjoy, comedy, romance, tragedy, family strife, they’re still so poignant centuries after they’re written.

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!”

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

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

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

I've got a question for the ACD Holmes community. What is "The practical handbook of bee culture'"? I just saw that it is a book you can buy, that is supposed to be Holmes's journal that he wrote during his time in Sussex, which is also supposed to reference a marriage to Mrs Hudson (?!) and other things. All the booksellers list the author as Sherlock Holmes (which obv. can't be true) and Google can tell me nothing about it. Is it fanfiction, that just happened to be sold as a book? What is this?

Well, this is very funny because I'm pretty sure I'm ace and therefore of course support ace people AND actually have very pointy canine teeth

Reblog if you ARE ace, SUPPORT ace people or actually have FANGS in real life

"boringly abled" omg this is amazing

Things to start calling allistic people IMMEDIATELY:

people with allism

people suffering from allism

people trapped in allistic bodies

low-functioning allistics

the boringly abled

“he’s mostly normal, he’s just got a lick of the ‘lism”