Thus was born an idea; to make a model of an ancient egyptian tomb.

I decided upon KV62 in particular, not for any poetic or symbolic reason, such as the monumental impact that the discovery of the tomb had on Egyptology in general and the wave of Tut-mania it unleashed in the 1920s; but simply because I thought it looked fairly easy to replicate at a 1/24 scale.

Thus began the project.
Regrettably, I neglected to take pictures in the early stages of the build; I will explain the process as best I can.

THE WALLS:
Using several images and dimensions provided by The Madain Project (a wonderful website that I encourage you, the reader, to visit) and that of several tourists and visitors to the site, I first built the main walls of burial chamber J using cardboard.
To recreate the limestone and plaster texture so prominent in such tombs, I utilised textured paper towels, which I plastered to the cardboard walls using thinned out glue,

I advise you to use a rough toothbrush to break up the mostly even texture of the paper towels. Additionally, I suggest you veto using cardboard, as the vertical stripe-y texture cast into relief by certain lighting can be most irritating.
MDF, or something similar, would be an admirable substitute.

I then began the slow and laborious process of painting the walls.
These paintings are nowhere near perfect, and perhaps the colours were initially too bright. However, this was remedied by the copious amount of weathering I added later.

(The following is the west wall painted with the images of twelve baboons, and is an extract from the first section of the Amduat, a funerary text)

For additional texture, I mainly used a mixture of paint and baking soda, along with the remnants of some ceramic clay powder i had left over.

The floor was done in a similar manner.

THE SARCOPHAGUS:
At this stage of the project, I was faced with a dilemma. Was I to attempt to carefully carve and reconstruct the three inner, gilded, coffins of the Boy-Pharaoh?

I decided that I'd rather keep my sanity, as meagre as it already is, with me for at least another week.

Thus, I chose to instead make the outer quartzite sarcophagus.

The base was, as is most things that I make, cardboard. I added a wooden dowel frame, along with clay on top.

The base coats, being pitifully shiny and plastic in nature, were then covered with a mixture of reddish brown paint and copious amounts of baking soda, in order to mimic stone.

I ensured to make the lid appear cracked in the middle, where that of the real sarcophagus was repaired with gesso.

Dear reader, I assume this is where you eagerly await an in-depth discussion of the copious carvings and detailed glyphs that I painstakingly added to the sarcophagus; the beautiful wings of Isis, Nephthys, Neith, and Selket, and the many protective inscriptions running along its surface.

I simply did not do that, for a variety of reasons.
I felt that it was nigh on impossible to recreate them with any finesse at this scale, and that simply suggesting the forms would look even worse.
Most importantly, I simply did not want to.

THE CEILING FLAP:

I then constructed a small tunnel of sorts, where Carter and his team would have dug into the tomb, hanging out of the as of yet flat cardboard exterior.
This was textured using clay.
I then made a ceiling, one that would hinge open. It was textured with clay, baking soda, and paint. I simulated the chisel marks of the ancient diggers with strokes of white paint.

Thus, the tomb was, in my eyes, complete.
I intend to make the exterior appear like a block of sandstone.
Please enjoy the results:

An agile pounce, a booming roar,
Blood seeps into the undergrowth.

Blood-soaked earth
the ichor of life

Apollo’s wrath, muffled by storm.
A shadow dispersed,
A silence born.

Stains that smell like the twinkling of an old piano in a dusty library. A smell that coats the hollows of your bones, like buttery sunlight streaming through a broken window.

And each flash of light is accompanied by a thudding boom that hollows your bones, a sound that grows louder and has fewer intervals of pause in between, the further you descend that skeleton structure.

• Evariste Galois

• 

Rich fabrics surround you, mottled with kaleidoscopic, intricate patterns of gold and silver.

Sunlight streams through these wearable works of art, producing streams of coloured light; the place shining in a lambent glow.

Flowing cloth of cerulean blue mimic the summer sky, while the deep greens and blues of a nearby tapestry seem to sway in the wind, causing ocean-like waves of fabric to engulf your vision.

The jewel eyes of an embroidered tiger surrounded by fiery oranges and reds seem to follow you, as you make your way through the exhibition, disoriented by a dizzying chromatic sway—colour and light effectively overtaking your vision and your imagination as you dance with the dancers painted on cloth, and twirl with the delicate leaves sewn onto sarees.

As you succumb to the whirl of colour and patterns surrounding you on all sides, you realise that these pieces of fabric, these woven artifacts, are pieces of a community’s soul.
They are timelines, narrating the story of a culture.

The sky above is inky black, with no stars and no moon in sight.
It seems to swirl and undulate, like patterns in obsidian or liquid smoke in squid ink.

I sit up, my mouth full of sand, and my hair all over the place.
Before I can spit out the grains, they dissolve. Melt.

I have the sensation of fracturing, my consciousness splitting; like the sand below, if there was enough light to reflect through it.

I knew I had to run, to leave before the Desert Keepers arrived.

I see languages—bits of script, and of sounds.
They fill the air. Suffocating me.

They taste like smoke and silk, cotton and cold water.
They smell like heat does.

I look down, and see the sandal of a Keeper.
I turn and run.

And run.

And run.

I finally reach a cool, smooth, hard surface.
My mind tells me to lie down on it.
It’s tempting.

I find it hard to concentrate; my mind seems to splinter, multiple versions of myself coexisting.

One of them tells me to lie down and sleep—to sleep, and remain an Earther.

I feel my limbs turning into multi-coloured granules.
The sand of the Desert.

I sleep.

He hated the crowds and the noise, and especially the drab, grey buildings. In his opinion, no one should be compelled to live in such a place, let alone someone who was getting rather old—not that he'd admit the latter.

And so, packing up his clothes and his books—can't forget those—he clambered into his little car and zipped off to the countryside, where he had secured a villa from a friend at an astoundingly low price.

This was a point of pride for him; he considered himself a master at negotiation, and felt that he had honed the skill to a razor sharp point. Albeit, said friend had been shrieking about...what was it? Ghosts and floating cutlery.

Matteo shook his head. He was a no-nonsense man, and had no time for, well, nonsense.

Pulling up at the villa after admiring the green countryside—and definitely not stealing a flowering plant or two, he was a no-nonsense man—he furtively wiped the mud off of his hands and stepped out of the pale yellow car, surveying the property.

He scratched his head. Well. It could use some renovation. Stepping inside, he breathed in deeply. And coughed. The place was rather dusty. And was that...was that a floating knife?
He stepped forward, plucked it out of the air, and placed it one a nearby table, muttering about safety regulations.

Strolling around the house—leaving footprints all of the floor—he looked into the bathroom. It had a large, round mirror, gilded at four points with lovely flowery patterns, and...the pale face of a girl with empty eye sockets and a gaping, bloody mouth.

He shook his head. 'Must be my medication,' he thought, and walked out of the room and into the bedroom.

It sported a large, full-size oil painting of a regal figure, with a flowing green dress, and a delicate gold circlet .
It also had a red, viscous substance dripping from its painted eyes.

"Modern art is so strange", he said aloud, shaking his head yet again.

He walked out. Again.

As he was setting his beloved books up, grumbling at the flickering lights and ‘'All these cold drafts, in my day we always had heating", he heard a rattling, blood curdling shriek, and felt a freezing gust of wind pass through him and slam open a window, escaping into the sunlight beyond.

Turning around, he saw, viciously scratched into the wallpaper, three large words: 'We Give Up!'

I had decided to follow a different path, for I wasn’t afraid of getting lost.

As I slowly walked, listening to the leaves crunching underfoot, and smelling the fresh air, I noticed the trees parting and giving way to a clearing.

Curious, I stepped forward and found myself at the edge of a pond—overgrown with weeds and lotus flowers, their delicate pink and white petals seeming to glow in the sparse sunlight.

As I stood there, I saw a ripple.

And another.

Yet again, another.

Intrigued, and mildly disconcerted, I saw a small hand shoot out of the water—thrashing and flailing wildly.

My mind went blank. Intent on saving the child, I dived into the water, pushing lotus leaves aside.
I pulled the child’s head out of the murky water, held on to his shoulders, and swam back to the pond’s edge; it was deceptively deep.

As I hauled him to the surface, and made to follow him, I felt a hand grab at my leg.

Startled, I looked into the water and saw—faces.
Ethereal, pale faces with hair fanning out in haloes of viridian.

They seemed rather inquisitive.

One of them reached a mottled, webbed hand out—beckoning me—and placed a piece of sea glass into my palm.

I don’t seem to remember what happened after that, and if I’m being honest, the entire incident feels shrouded; pitted with abysses of memory.

Perhaps it was a dream after all.

Tucked away in the corner of a street, and surrounded by some of my other haunts (such as the planetarium), it remains inconspicuous and rather forgettable—that is, until you enter it.

At first glance, one notices the lighting.
Walnut floors, plush threadbare armchairs, and the lovely brown and green hues of its interior are bathed in a warm, buttery light.

The music, while tasteful, is lowered to a comfortable background; and a toasty smell of coffee fills the air.

I can only compare it to a Hobbit-hole—small without being claustrophobic, and unbelievably cosy; it radiates the homely warmth of a fireplace without housing one.
It is indeed, the sort of place a congregation of weary travellers in a fantastical tale might stop to rest and shelter themselves from the pounding rain.

Nestled in a corner, one can content themselves to simply sit and observe; the serenity of the shop belying the whirring minds of patrons travelling to distant lands of legend and intrigue through their books, and capturing the intricacies of their surroundings through art.

A silence, leaden with unwritten poetry and literature to be—the vivid and abstract hues of future Rembrandts—and the nebulous wanderings of minds deep in thought, permeates the very fibres of the shop.

Each raindrop has its own story. Every molecule of water does.

From the Big Bang, when hydrogen and other light elements were created, to now—the one thing that remains constant, yet ever-changing, is water.

All the hydrogen and helium in the universe was created at the Big Bang.

In this way, water is infinitely old. The same water that quenched the thirst of dinosaurs, rained over ancient monuments while they were being built, and refreshed countless millennia of flora and fauna currently slides over the roof of my house.

It makes me feel…small, yes, but connected.

I like to look at individual drops and imagine the journeys they’ve taken to reach my window.

Sherlock Holmes. This enigmatic character has been captivating readers across the world ever since his debut in 1887. Whether it's his enigmatic personality, razor sharp intellect, or his signature snarkiness, he has captured the minds and imaginations of people lifetimes apart, ensnaring them with tales full of mystery and intrigue; action and thrilling suspense. These tales are beautifully accented with insights into Victorian society, and surprisingly complex character studies, delving deep into the nature of friendship and loyalty, frequently exploring the intricacies of morality and the complexities of human nature. If nothing else, they are a wonderful source of intrigue and entertainment. Holmes himself may state that “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent ”, however the many grotesque and stimulating adventures detailed in these books beg to differ.

This book review aims to explore the foundations of these stories and the characters that have become cornerstones of detective fiction, seeking to understand why they remain so beloved nearly a century later.
This is not the most in depth or nuanced analysis that I could hope for, due to time restrictions, however I hope it shall serve this purpose.

The entire collection of stories and novels, leading up to the supposed death of the famous detective in ‘The Final Problem’, and his return (prompted by immense public outcry, much to Doyle’s consternation, as he had grown quite weary of the character and the prospect of writing stories involving the detective) in ‘The Empty House’ centre around Dr John Watson, army medic turned biographer and, in the end, faithful companion and partner in—well, not crime per say (I suppose with the exception of the rather amusing escapade in *‘Charles Augustus Milverton’—*of Sherlock Holmes, the great London detective.

Set primarily in Victorian London, these tales are narrated by Watson and feature the duo solving a wide array of mysteries, with a high rate of success, much to the chagrin of Scotland Yard’s officers.

Each case highlights Holmes' extraordinary deductive reasoning and attention to detail, alongside Watson's steadfast support. The pair navigate crimes ranging from theft and blackmail to murder, often encountering complex characters and ethical dilemmas.
Some of my personal favourites include A Scandal in Bohemia (which reveals the human side of Holmes, showing he is far from an infallible paragon of deduction. Irene Adler, intelligent, resourceful, and cunning, stands out as one of the rare few to outwit him); The Three Garridebs (an…eccentric case that highlights Holmes' deep loyalty and affection for Watson); The Yellow Face (a surprising and heartwarming tale where Holmes’ deductions are proven incorrect in a way that subverts expectations, offering a progressive portrayal of people of colour for its time); and Charles Augustus Milverton (A strangely amusing narrative in which Holmes and Watson try their hand at crime—for a purely good cause, of course—only to witness poetic justice as a mysterious countess—one of Milverton’s victims—handle the situation quite effectively (as in she shoots him multiple times))

Through Holmes' sharp intellect and Watson's warm humanity, the stories explore themes of justice, morality, and human nature, whether it be through unravelling an international espionage plot, or solving a seemingly mundane domestic dispute, each case proves to be, in Holmes’ words, most singular.

Arthur Conan Doyle partly modelled Sherlock Holmes on Edgar Allan Poe’s detective, C. Auguste Dupin. Early fictional detectives often relied on luck or coincidence to solve crimes, but Doyle resolved that his detective would use reason, a logical mind, and scientific principles. Holmes, a man of science, is portrayed as a pioneer of forensic methods, even being introduced in the process of inventing a blood-detecting solution.

Holmes is meticulously calculating, accumulating evidence until he has enough to form a complete narrative of the crime. His investigative methods are often ahead of their time, predating the official practices of police forces in both America and Britain. He values fingerprints as evidence (check out The Adventure of the Norwood Builder),and uses handwritten notes to deduce a suspect’s identity, character, and social standing such as in The Adventure of the Reigate Squire, where he identifies both the writers of a note and their familial relationship through the idiosyncrasies of their handwriting.

Holmes is no stranger to cryptography either, as he is seen solving several ciphers in The Adventure of the Gloria Scott, and most notably, The Adventure of the Dancing Men (wherein he goes as far as to lure in the criminal using their own cipher via messages)

Holmes' methods (or rather, the basis for his methods) could be summarised by the aphorism Natura non facit saltum, meaning “nature does nothing in jumps.” This reflects his approach to crime-solving, each step in his reasoning is a logical progression, rooted in cause and effect. By seeing a crime as a story with a beginning, middle, and end, Holmes meticulously deconstructs each element to reveal the truth; each step of that narrative leads to the conclusion. He reasons backwards, looking at the crime, the conclusion, and attempting to parse each step that led to it.

As mentioned previously, before Holmes, detectives in fiction often relied on chance, intuition, and coincidence to solve crimes. Characters like Edgar Allan Poe's C. Auguste Dupin laid the groundwork for intellectual detective figures, but Holmes took the concept further, elevating reason, scientific inquiry, and observation to the forefront of criminal investigation. His scientific rigour, and reliance on cold logic have set the stage for innumerable other works of fiction based on these stories. In fact, Sherlock Holmes is the second most portrayed character in literature and film (after Count Dracula), and is technically the most portrayed human character.

Holmes' original portrayal as a genius in his field, nearly bordering on the superhuman, has laid the groundwork of the “Great Detective” archetype. His analytical approach, aloof personality, and tendency to be somewhat detached from emotions and his occasional disregard of social

norms influenced not only future detectives but also the way crime-solving characters are presented across genres, both in literature and in popular media.

Furthermore, the Sherlock Holmes stories are widely credited with being the first to incorporate forensic science into detective fiction, a trend that is still followed today (such as in shows like CSI or Dexter)

This is not to mention the wealth of adaptations that have followed the tales, from Basil Rathbone’s early film portrayals, Jeremy Brett’s portrayal in the TV series The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, to Benedict Cumberbatch's modern version in Sherlock. (There has also been an excellent Soviet adaptation, and even a Disney movie adaptation).

Beyond traditional adaptations, the character's influence extends to various global interpretations; the character of Gregory House in the medical drama House MD is also heavily inspired by Holmes (geddit? House. Holmes), while his fellow doctor, James Wilson, draws parallels to John Watson.

The dichotomy between rationality and emotion is often expressed in these stories. Holmes is depicted as a paragon of cold logic and possesses a clinical demeanour when handling cases (note, this does not mean he treats all his clients with brusqueness or extreme coldness. This is something modern adaptations such as BBC’s Sherlock have heavily leant on, possibly to amplify the eccentricity of behaviour that would’ve communicated well in the Victorian period, but likely wouldn’t have had the same effect on modern audiences. In actuality, Holmes mostly interacted with his clients with an overwhelming sense of…well, politeness (albeit occasionally with a bit of impatience)). This is in contrast to his companion, Watson. A doctor and a man of empathy, he is often moved by the personal stories of the people involved in the cases, and his responses are often guided by moral and emotional considerations.

This dynamic between the two characters creates an interesting tension: Holmes' rationality often clashes with Watson's emotional responses, but at the same time, their partnership demonstrates that both elements, logic and emotion, are necessary in navigating the complexities of human nature and society.

Holmes himself displays this dichotomy; while astoundingly aloof and stoic, his occasional moments of admiration for Watson’s loyalty and affection, or his deeper, almost begrudging respect for certain individuals, suggest that beneath his rational exterior, there is a nuanced understanding of human emotion. This tension between rationality and emotion possibly echoes broader debates in society during the Victorian era, where scientific rationalism and a growing understanding of human psychology began to challenge traditional notions of morality, emotion, and spirituality.

A rather interesting anecdote is when Holmes berates Watson on the charge of sensationalism, as evidenced by the following quote from The Adventure of the Abbey Grange:

“I fancy that every one of his (here Holmes is referring to officer Hopkins) cases has found its way into your collection, and I must admit, Watson, that you have some power of selection which atones for much which I deplore in your narratives. Your fatal habit of looking at everything from the point of view of a story instead of as a scientific exercise has ruined what might have been an instructive and even classical series of demonstrations. You slur over work of the utmost finesse and delicacy in order to dwell upon sensational details which may excite, but cannot possibly instruct, the reader”

However, in The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier, Holmes concedes to the necessity of…well, humanity, being present in the cases that Watson chronicles, since, after all, it is this sense of humanity that allows readers to connect with and empathise with the victims, (and perhaps even the perpetrators).
(Here is the quote: “Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself rigidly to fact and figures. "Try it yourself, Holmes!" he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realise that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader.”)

The stories offer an intriguing exploration of how these themes interact in a complex world, with Holmes’ methodical approach working in tandem with Watson’s sheer humanity.

The stories paint a picture of life in the late Victorian period, from broader, more cerebral topics, to the intricacies of daily life. They act as a time capsule, capturing not only the era’s societal norms and anxieties, but also smaller details,such as domestic habits, modes of transportation, and even the language used in dialogue.

The Enlightenment Ideals:

Holmes' scientific methods seemingly mirror the rise of the Enlightenment ideals in Victorian London, with rationalism, logic and the scientific method being used to solve public issues (ie, crime). His methods, often juxtaposed with the more traditional, albeit flawed, methods used by Scotland Yard, paint him as an ideal of Victorian rationalism and progress.

The tension between scientific reasoning and older superstitions or traditional beliefs (seen in cases involving the supernatural or other unexplained phenomena) serves as a commentary on the society's struggle to reconcile the new with the old.

(Note from Aavni: Do check out Arthur Conan Doyle’s ironic involvement in the Cottingley Fairies hoax)

Morality and Justice:

Victorian society was extremely concerned with upholding perceived moral values.
However, in the stories, the portrayal of criminals and their motivations often hints at broader moral questions, such as social alienation or desperation, reflecting Victorian anxieties about social decay and the challenges of maintaining morality in a rapidly changing society.
As mentioned before, Holmes can often be seen working outside conventional moral boundaries, such as in The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, where he and Watson burgle a house in an attempt to secure justice.
*
Women in a male-dominated society:*
While the stories are often critiqued for the lack of fully realised female characters, a closer examination reveals a spectrum of complex portrayals of women in a male-dominated society. Irene Adler (from A Scandal in Bohemia) remains one of the most iconic examples, outwitting Holmes and embodying intelligence and independence that defy Victorian gender norms, however her death is casually mentioned in passing, a product of the era’s tendency to relegate women’s triumphs to fleeting moments. Kitty Winter famously enacted justice upon the deplorable Baron Adelbert Gruner by pouring acid on his face, while Violet Hunter is portrayed as an intelligent and resourceful woman, willing to take control of her circumstances despite societal constraints, and was an active participant in the resolution of the case. Even in The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire, the mother emerges as a protector of her child, trapped by familial constraints.

Nevertheless, Doyle’s portrayal of women is uneven. Many female characters are relegated to passive roles, confined by Victorian stereotypes of gullibility or fragility. Female subjects are often subject to backgrounding (such as Elsie in The Adventure of the Dancing Men). These limitations mirror Victorian societal constraints, after all, Doyle was a man of his time.

*Race, the Empire, and Social Anxiety:
*Doyle’s treatment of race and foreign characters often reflects the imperialist attitudes of his time.

Most cases, particularly those involving international intrigue, lean on stereotypes that underscore Victorian fears of the "Other.”

However, Doyle also offers occasional moments of progressive subversion. The Adventure of the Yellow Face is a prime example, exploring a mother’s fears and struggles to protect her mixed race child while attempting to integrate her into white Victorian society. This tale, with its unexpectedly heartwarming conclusion, offers a rare critique of racial prejudice.

It’s only natural that people, with their unique backgrounds, perspectives, and thinking processes, all living in entirely different contexts and worldviews, derive their own meanings from a piece of media. The process may be likened to holding up a jewel to the light and watching its facets shimmer and reflect, casting patterns of light onto nearby surfaces. Those patterns would depend on the angle you're holding it at with reference to the light, how your mind interprets those patterns, any objects in the path of the jewel or the light, and a thousand other little divergences. No matter the variances in the patterns that can be produced, all of them are still produced by that one jewel. And different people may find one pattern more beautiful than the other, but that is solely their preference.

Isn’t that the point of storytelling? To explore, to imagine. To dive into other worlds, to find beauty in the outre and singular, to look at things from different perspectives? Storytelling is an experiment in imagination;to find a world, a character, a message important to you, and make it your own.

Simply put, one’s interpretation might not be the same as someone else’s, and that’s expected. Works like the Sherlock Holmes stories offer a wealth of complexities that can shift depending on context, historical understanding, and individual experiences.

In the case of these stories, interpretations of character relationships and motivations are bound to differ.
After all, that’s the magic of storytelling; the narrative never ends.

In that vein, I must caution that what I have, and especially what I will be presenting here is simply one way of reading the text. It’s shaped by my own perspective and interests, and I invite others to explore their own interpretations as well.

The stories are told from Dr. Watson’s point of view. This allows readers to relate to Holmes from a more grounded perspective. Watson acts as a stand-in for the reader, someone who is constantly in awe of Holmes’ abilities.

Many adaptations of the stories paint Watson as a comical sidekick, a mere mortal constantly being sidelined by Holmes’ supernatural abilities. However, the original stories paint a different picture. Watson is constantly shown as a competitive, intelligent man, who instead of being completely dumbfounded by Holmes’ methods (although he often is shown to be as such), often marvels at the sheer simplicity of the matter when explained by the detective. As a former army surgeon, he brings his own expertise and bravery to the table, frequently assisting Holmes in ways that go beyond mere documentation. He has also been shown to attempt to implement Holmes’ methods of deduction and thought (with varying degrees of success).

Holmes, in turn, holds Watson in high regard, frequently entrusting him with sensitive information and relying on his support during dangerous situations. Their dynamic is a partnership built on mutual respect, loyalty, and trust. Their bond extends beyond professional collaboration, reflecting a deep camaraderie that underscores many of the stories.

The following analysis explores themes of identity and sexuality as they relate to Victorian literature and historical context. This discussion is intended to be academic and respectful, aiming to offer a nuanced perspective on the subject. If you find such topics uncomfortable or offensive, you are advised to approach this section with discretion.

I chose this topic because I find the complexities of identity and subtext in Victorian literature fascinating. My goal is to explore the historical and literary nuances in a respectful and professional way, however, I am aware it barely scratches the surface of the subject. Regardless, If there's anything in my analysis that needs adjustment, I welcome your feedback.

One of the challenges I encountered while analysing the relationship between Holmes and Watson was parsing whether the affectionate terms of endearment the two use were intentionally meant as subtext for a romantic relationship. On one hand, Victorian friendships between men often carried a deep emotional intimacy, and such language could simply reflect the norms of the time. On the other hand, modern readers may interpret these interactions as potential indicators of romantic or dare I say sexual undertones.

Moreover, in the Victorian era, societal views on sexuality were vastly different from today. Ideas of gender identity and sexuality are fluid, and have changed and shifted with the societal contexts they’re in (for example, the concept of ‘Romantic friendships’). Simply put, it is a rather difficult, not to say, a moot point to try to apply modern labels and terms to historical figures, and by extension, characters living in historical time periods; doing so risks misinterpreting the cultural landscape of the time.

However, the ambiguity of Holmes’ relationship with Watson, has made the topic an exceedingly interesting one (for me atleast) to analyse.

One possible noteworthy influence on Holmes’ character is Oscar Wilde, a queer icon of the nineteenth century; a man who, incidentally, apparently left an “indelible impression” on Doyle when they met at a dinner party in August 1889 (at Langham Hotel, to discuss their works-in-progress; The Sign of Four (Doyle’s) and The Picture of Dorian Gray (Wilde’s)).

The bohemian detective, notable for his disinterest in both women and social norms, may have been influenced by Doyle’s social circle (the British literary circle of the time being rather close-knit; Bram Stoker, author of ‘Dracula’ (yet another Victorian book that is often debated over with regard to queerness and queer subtext) appears to have known Wilde as well)

Unfortunately, due to word limits, time constraints, and all the other wonderful forces that haunt the aspiring writer, I would not be able to state every single instance that warrants further discussion regarding queer subtext.

However, I shall endeavour to highlight a few:

The Adventure of the Three Students:

“It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter, caused Mr Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great University towns, and it was during this time that the small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. It will be obvious that any details which would help the reader to exactly identify the college or the criminal would be injudicious and offensive. So painful a scandal may well be allowed to die out.”

The year 1895 remains notable here; the year that news of the infamous Oscar Wilde trials spread throughout England. Becoming rather a sensationalised media scandal, the trials led to increased scrutiny; every aspect of male social behaviour was fraught with suspicion, and the attitude towards same-sex relationships grew harsher.
Many individuals retreated into secrecy, or even fled London, fearful of exposure.
Perhaps the “combination of events” stated here refer to this turbulent period.

And, in both The Devil’s Foot and The Three Garridebs\,* Holmes is shown to possess a deep sense of affection and loyalty, nay, in Watson’s words, love, for the doctor. As mentioned in previous sections, the reverse is true as well.

The point is, nearly every instance in which glimmers of Holmes’ humanity or “the softer human emotions” are allowed to peek through, have usually centred around his affection for his companion, Watson.

Hopefully, in the future, I may be able to compile all the instances that I refer to; perhaps as a personal project, and delve into the nitty-gritty of subtext in Victorian literature.

However, for the sake of brevity, I must end the analysis here.

Once again, I must reiterate that in literature, subtext is often a tool for reflection. Whether or not Doyle consciously or intentionally embedded queer themes in his portrayal of Holmes and Watson, the stories invite readers to engage with these themes through their own lenses.

***Quote from The Three Garridebs:
“ Then my friend’s wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair. “You’re not hurt, Watson? For God’s sake, say that you are not hurt!” It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation. “It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.” He had ripped up my trousers with his pocketknife. “You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It is quite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?” “

With quivering leaves and a stiff spine, I watch as a lumberjack ambles forward, an insignificant being, but extremely determined.

Foolish human. Do you not realise the wealth of cleansing air I provide? Do you not notice the shrieking cries and throaty chirps of the many other beings that call me home?

Raising his glinting axe, the lumberjack strikes; the blow not sinking deep, but exploding in a burst of green sap—of green blood. Again and again he strikes, chipping away at my tough skin, hacking at soft wood until I am no bigger than a stump in the ground.

But the foolish human does not notice the myriad of scars that adorned my previous selves; past lives that I have lived. Can he say the same for himself?

For once a tree such as myself is cut, I do not die.

I am immortal. My core rests within the earth's embrace. I am protected by rock and stone. They cannot wrench my soul from the chambers below.

The lumberjack drags his spoils away, satisfied. But I am not vanquished. I may have been reduced to a mere stump, but my spirit still stands proud and strong.

The lumberjack may consider himself king, but when he dies, it is I who renames him: everything.

But that's not precisely true.

Most of the time, its too much. So much that it blurs into a static. Much like my thoughts when I don't have something to do.

My chest aches, feel wrenched open when I look at something that's supposed to make me happy. The ocean. The stars. The rain. So many little and big things.

Pure, unfiltered happiness, like glittering sea glass, like the vibrant, delicate structures of an orange slice shimmering in the sun, but as heavy and dense as a yawning black hole; it's too much. It spreads through, filling my limbs, my torso, my heart, my head, my throat, like it's about to inflate me and make me burst open in an explosion of blood.

It's not light, not vibrant, not bubbly. It's slow. Heavy. Creeping up, like sun rays reflecting through honey and amber, It's too much. It makes me want to shapeshift. Stretch, melt, make myself bigger, make room for all that feeling. Simply melt into and absorb whatever is making me feel. Nostalgia is worse. It's all so painful.

So I make it stop, make my thoughts unfocused, dim the lights, so to speak.

But I shouldn't. It doesn't matter how confusing those feelings are, how utterly clueless I am to handle or interpret them. They are a beautiful thing. Complex mixes of chemicals and signals causing the actual physical sensations of expanding and being pressed down at the same time. They aren't comfortable, but they're mine. It feels like drowning.

Yes. That's what it feels like. Drowning in shards of colour, in crackles of light. In wisps of smoke. In rivers of glittering sand. In amber and honey and molasses.

Right now, one particular mental image makes me feel that. That and so much more. It's nothing remarkable. Just, the idea of standing on the deck of a ship out at sea; the warm glow of the lanterns filling the cabins, but not quite spilling out onto the smooth planks. Standing there and looking out at the vast expanse of ocean. Feeling it churn under your feet. Smelling it. Feeling it permeate your skin. Feeling yourself melt and absorb it. Marvelling at the vastness of the dark water below, and the darker sky above, and the stars—there must be millions mottling the sky, bunching together, like the ocean does on smooth wood; droplets rolling of their own accord across the deck and sides, reflecting every tiny pinprick above.

The stars would look like they're sailing too, accompanying you on your voyage. They'd look so close together, almost touching.

But they're lonely creatures. Just like the solitary figure standing on that ship, head tilted upwards in awe and wonder. An expression of longing. A hint of sadness. Seemingly right next to the crewmembers, but oh so distant. Wishing that simple moment would stretch out forever, fearing its loss, but at the same time overwhelmed by the sheer wave of...feeling swooping through, threatening to sink you, drown you.

The priests declare this as a sign of the Gods’ approval of our work.

London, 1666 (The recovered diary entry of William Burdock)
September 5
The Great Fire rages with fury, consuming all before it. Yet, amidst the chaos and despair, my eyes beheld a marvel most peculiar.

It was on the fourth of September, as the Cathedral of Saint Paul succumbed to the infernal flames, that I witnessed a sight of the most fanciful manner. Amidst the wailing and lamentations of my fellow Londoners, there stood a creature of the most queer form. Its visage was that of a clock, its face adorned with numbers and hands that seemed to turn of their own accord.
With keen interest, it regarded the burning cathedral, as though unmoved by the catastrophe. And when our gazes met, my eyes to its...dials, it vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving me to question the sanity of my own mind.

Has the smoke of the fire poisoned my senses, or have I indeed glimpsed a phantom from another world?

Chicago World’s Fair, 1893 (The recovered diary entry of Henry Emerson)
May 15
The most peculiar occurrence transpired at the World’s Columbian Exposition today.
As I strolled near the Palace of Fine Arts, taking in its magnificent grandeur while simultaneously gaping at the breathtaking sights of vessels docked in Jackson Park’s sprawling waterways, I glimpsed what appeared to be a mystifying vessel materializing out of thin air! It was a steamboat, its hull a shimmery color I had never seen before. Adorned with intricate gold and copper metalwork and innumerable gears and dials, its paddles appeared to fade in and out of the waning light, as if they were made out of mist, and its jackstaff bore no flag.

Most astonishing however, was its occupant – a figure clothed in a pristine sack coat and bowler hat, both possessing a luster akin to that of melting gold, and incredibly, sporting a large, ornate clock-face where its head would be.

Astonished, I watched as its gaze – if one could call it that – fell upon the ships docked nearby. It appeared to fidget indecisively for a moment, and within a fraction of a blink, it and the ethereal vessel seemed to altogether vanish.

Have the marvels of the White City addled my mind, or have I truly glimpsed something from beyond our time?

The Present-day
I cautiously step forward, not entirely comprehending what my eyes see, and once I do, not entirely believing them.

Right there, docked in a small lake near my house, is a ship of the likes I’ve never seen before. It resembles a small yacht, only, the colour of liquefied copper and gold and bronze, pooling into a shimmery visage. It’s adorned with pistons, gears, and futuristic-looking dials, more than could possibly be of use.

Trembling, I raise a hand to pat its hull, and I am suddenly pulled inside, the entire vessel unfolding endlessly, opening up into vast layers of velvety darkness and occasional incomprehensible flashes of colour and searing light. As I fall into the abyss, the ship’s sides enveloping me like the petals of a gigantic flower, I swear I can hear the faint tinkling of a thousand clocks, each chiming to an endless, maddening beat.

I finally stop falling, and open my eyes.
I am no longer near the serene surface of the lake.

I look around and see a vast, swirling sea, the water shimmering and multicoloured, currents swirling and mixing in a dizzying chromatic sway of motion, the very air a ballet of iridescent chaos. Above me, the sky is vast and endless, a dome of inky blackness dotted with infinitesimal unrecognizable stars and galaxies.
Chunks of rubble, fragments of monuments; landmarks of history, float serenely a few meters above the water, seeming to follow the churning currents below. I notice that the more ancient pieces tend to follow similarly coloured streams of movement. The ship lurches forward, and I fall on my back.

Moments before slipping away into darkness, spread eagled on the deck of a strange ship, my eyes fall upon a peculiar sight: a large, round, clock-face; gold and, like the ship, covered in gears and dials and - is that a compass - staring down at me.

The soft, repetitive ‘swoosh’ of the ocean usually provided a pleasant background to his whirling brain, a metronome that his scattered thoughts could march along to. Now, however, the rhythm seemed to mock him.

Cyril's glum gaze fell to the well-worn pages of his notebook—a slightly worrying brown from too many incidents involving tea and a case of perhaps-keeping-liquids-on-unstable-surfaces-is-a-bad-idea-itis— that, to his mounting frustration, remained stubbornly blank.

He sat up and stretched—he really ought to buy a new chair, his spine was crackling like kindling, and he was just 45!—and reached for his full cup of tea. His fingers were mere inches from the handle when something made him pause. Was it a trick of the fading light, or did the cup seem... off somehow?

Cyril blinked hard, then leaned in closer. The edges of the cup appeared to shimmer and shift, like heat rising from sun-baked asphalt. He shook his head. The shimmering stopped.

Making a mental note to cut down on caffeine—thirteen cups a day couldn’t possibly be healthy for anyone, no wonder he was seeing things— he shifted his weight, about to stand up and head to bed.
That was when it hit him.

A brittle, ringing silence. The kind of silence that hung heavy in the air after an intense argument. Tense.

He strained his ears, listening for the familiar murmur of the waves, and the gentle sighing of wind in the trees, the occasional gusts that made his little front gate creak ever so slightly.

Nothing.

Brow furrowed, he gazed out the window, the sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in luxurious, purples and reds. Only now, the light had an unnatural, dreamlike quality to it, and…no, that was impossible- was that–

Snap!
Cyril’s eyes flew open. He sat up, his neck screaming in protest. He must’ve fallen asleep in an awkward position. He reached for his cup, his fingers brushing against the cool ceramic. Everything seemed normal. Just a dream then.
He took a sip of his tea, and sighed.

Snap!
He awoke with a gasp, and blinked, momentarily disoriented. There was a harsh ringing in his ears. He realized with a start, that he was sitting on the floor. The cool wood felt reassuring beneath him as he waited for the ringing to stop.

Snap!
He groaned. The ringing was getting louder, more insistent.

Snap!
Cyril found himself slouched on his desk once more. He looked around at his cluttered workspace. The light filling the room was no longer warm and buttery, but cold, and unsettling. It was sharp, fragile; as though any sudden movements might shatter the very air into a thousand shards. Everything around him had a warped, distorted appearance, like he was looking through a piece of melted glass. The ringing had stopped, but the sounds around him were amplified, the waves choppy and agitated.

Panic seized his throat. What was happening, was he losing his mind? He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to will the strangeness away.

He looked at his cup. It was empty.

Snap!

Warm, smooth wood. The rustling of paper. The insistent murmur of waves.

Cyril sat up warily. Trembling slightly, he took stock of his surroundings; his notebook and pen were in their usual spots on the cluttered desk, the lamp, rusty and disused as usual, and his tea–
His tea cup was full. He furrowed his brows. He certainly remembered it being empty.

A knot of apprehension tightened in his gut as he listened for any discrepancies in the cacophony of sounds that usually surrounded and permeated his cottage.

Hearing nothing out of the ordinary, he stood up, grabbed the handle of his cup, and emptied its contents into a small sink. He had half a mind to throw out all the tea in the kitchen; it must have been contaminated, or something.

Drawn by the promise of a sea breeze to clear his head, he stepped outside. The muffled murmur of the ocean turned into an insistent roar, as the sultry sea air enveloped him.

He drew in a breath. The ocean always helped him think. Indeed, that was why he chose that cottage, nestled in the dunes of a charming little tropical island, away from the deafening din of a buzzing metropolis. Sure, he enjoyed publishing and editing, seeing new authors burst onto the scene with fresh ideas and vibrant prose, but nothing quite compared to the thrill of crafting his own stories, weaving worlds from the whispers of waves and the rustle of palm fronds.

He was finally beginning to relax, having dismissed the strange occurrences as an elaborate nightmare, as he scanned the horizon, watching the churning water make the sunlight dance elegantly on its surface.
He tensed. The water looked wrong—waves lapping backward, defying nature. His gaze drifted upward; clouds rolled against the wind. A shiver raced down his spine as the hairs on his neck stood at attention. The unshakeable feeling of being watched crept over him.

Slowly, he turned. His shadow loomed on the wall instead of the ground, rusty nails gleaming where eyes should be. Transfixed, he watched as the air crystallized around him, reality fracturing at the edges.

Panic propelled him inside the cottage, the world lurching with each step. He gripped his desk, knuckles white. His notebook, half-blank moments ago, now overflowed with loopy, messy script. The crinkled edges of pages fuzzed in and out of his vision,

He'd never learned cursive.

The light splintered, a kaleidoscope of pulsating shards. A piercing, tinny ringing assaulted his ears, threatening to wrench his sanity from him, whatever was left of it.

He pressed his hands to his head, the world dividing into a nauseating blur. Layers peeled back, the world a fractured mirror. A silent scream built up in his throat—

Snap