221b_recs | Fic: The Way We Look Like Animals, by Moranion (Reply)

Title: The Way We Look Like Animals
Author: Moranion (AO3)
Pairing: Gen; Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson
Length: 2327
Rating: Mature
Warnings: none
Verse: Elementary
Author's summary: Holmes adores death, misses London, plays his violin and persuades Watson to show him her claws.
Reccer's comments: This is from the Mendeleev series. It stands well on its own.

Yes, another well-written Elementary story, and one in a series at that.

I'm torn over Elementary, especially resistant to the m/f pairing of the immortal duo and to the replacement of canonical Watson with Joan. No lie, I love the actress and the character and her interaction with this very intriguing and human version of Holmes. But, but, fic may elevate and change all that. This Joan, Watson or not, is a brilliant character to write, grounded over rivers of sadness. This Holmes, darker and more pained, more openly wracked by his addiction and past, might just rise above the angst to show some growth.

This begins after the second episode, when Holmes plays his violin. It's all from his point of view, as he contemplates Joan against the background of his current life. Joan is convincing, with some depth. Holmes pulls a bit of her past from her, a story that's believable. The interior depiction of Holmes is also spot on, and the dialogue rings true to what we've seen so far. They're both teetering, but find a certain steadiness in each other. The series as a whole (three short stories, so far) contains light bondage in the rest, but the characterizations are as fine. I'd like to see this author tackle Gregson.

***
A little taste, of Holmes on Joan:

Watson is astounding, really, professionally unassuming from the top of her dark head to the heels of her sensible shoes, but every now and then, she properly looks at him and he can see something shifting behind her eyes, something hard and unyielding, something that says you have no idea, no idea at all, and he just might be able to resist it, if only it wouldn’t be the most tempting puzzle he’s ever seen, and more than that, it’s a labyrinth, its walls shifting around while he’s looking at them, and not to sound sappy, but he’s never seen something this beautiful before.

Another taste, of Holmes on London vs. New York:

London was - is - all silk ropes and leather floggers and honey-sweet golden ghosts rising from the roofs in the morning, ghosts that lived in his violin and stroked his fevered flesh when his hands were too busy, but New York ...

New York beats him up like a lost cause he is, leaves him motionless with his face down in the dirt, smell of blood stinging bright in his eyes. He’s learning how to get in a punch of his own every now and then, but still, New York needs centuries before it’ll come close to London, and who has the time to wait?

(London made love to him every day and New York fucks him up against a concrete wall until he bleeds, and the problem is that he can’t actually decide which he likes better.)