Millennial Sisyphus keeps entering all the information from his resume into the web form, only for it to delete everything when he tries to move to the next page. He just goes back and types it all up again, over and over again, forever, and he never gets a job.
Millennial Tantalus has been promised that his unpaid internship will become a paid position as soon as the company has space for him. Every week he sees their new job posting. Every week he asks his boss if he can have a real job. The boss shrugs apologetically and says he’ll just have to make do with being paid in experience a little longer. He goes back and keeps working, over and over again, forever, and he never reaches the fruits of his labors.
Millennial Persephone can’t get a job without a degree, but because she had to take out loans to pay for college, she must spend 1/3 of her life working just to pay them off.
Millennial Cassandra’s title is Social Media Coordinator, she was hired to be the expert, but every time she tries to explain the problems in her company’s social media decisionmaking, the managers don’t listen…and end up hiring expensive PR flacks to repair the damage to their reputation when things blow up exactly as she predicted.
While Sherlock was “dead,” imagine how many hateful letters calling sherlock a fraud John must have received at 221b for the time he was still there. Imagine how many emails. Imagine how many rude passersby.
I have a feeling that Hudders took the brunt of the letters because John probably didn’t stay at 221b for very long after Sherlock’s death. The flat practically represents Sherlock, just look at the contents of it, it has Sherlock written all over it. 🙁
Oh God Hudders getting rid of the letters quickly to get them out of John’s sight– and then eventually she realizes John isn’t coming by, isn’t calling, isn’t ever in danger of seeing them.
Idk, would Hudders have opened the letters to even realize what they were? Or would she have saved them all in a little pile thinking maybe they could potentially be fan mail, letters supporting Sherlock, supporting John, saying they were heartbroken on his behalf? So she saves them all up to give to John the next time he comes by, only there is no next time, and the pile just keeps getting bigger, but she keeps saving them anyway because someday, someday John is going to come by, and she wants to give him all these letters people have sent to show how much they loved Sherlock. And then that day comes that he finally does stop by, he tells her that he’s moving on, that he’s getting married, and she decides then and there not to give them to him after all. If he’s finally moving on, he doesn’t need to be reminded of everything he lost. So she goes back downstairs and starts opening them up herself instead, but as she reads, it’s all hate and ridicule and vitriol people have spewed about Sherlock’s fall from grace–she’s read John’s blog so she knows that people have said terrible things about Sherlock, but actually witnessing it like this, she finally understands why John had to move out, understands why he couldn’t bring himself back here after all this time, constantly faced with the war between what he felt for Sherlock and what everyone else must have been screaming at him, about how he was duped, completely taken in by a heartless madman. But Mrs. Hudson knows Sherlock wasn’t that, and she knows that John, in spite of it all, knows that, too. She doesn’t need to read any more. She knows what they say now. She knows that likely every single one of them is the same message, this little pile of hate she’s been storing away these last two years. But there’s no room for hate here, not in the home where the genius detective and his loyal blogger had lived and loved, where she had looked after them as if they were her own sons, where they had shown repeatedly how much they cared about people by saving them over and over again. The world may not see it that way, but she certainly does. Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and she’s not going to let anyone say otherwise. She takes pleasure in throwing every last letter into the fire, watching the paper curl and blacken, the words consumed by a power stronger than their hatred.
