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Fic Rec: Negative
Jun. 5th, 2012 02:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
chapbook.livejournal.comTitle: Negative
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aderyn8
Pairing: Gen, but could be interpreted as Sherlock/John
Length: 3,291
Rating: T
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: "When Sherlock comes back from the dead, he comes back dead. Or that’s what John thinks at first.
...and then the violets come in at the house across the street."
A little help from the living, and the dead: Because this story can’t be written.
Reccer's comments: Can the written word convey a palette? This story certainly takes on the hues of a hand-tinted vintage photograph: grays, silvers, with sudden splashes of bright color. One of my favorite post-Reichenbach works. It features a wonderful premise (a metaphorical take on Sherlock's return), rhythmic prose, and a haunting, dream-like atmosphere. Many characters, including a few never seen alive onscreen, have cameos, thus bringing the past into the present (a theme in many of aderyn's ficlets and one-shots).
Note: Per the author's comments, this one-shot could be taken as a sequel to Black Dog, or Elegy for an Idiot.
Two excerpts:
Sherlock wakes, finally, and he needs to eat, so John brings him a soup made of 50% vegetables from the market (tiny expensive spinach probably imported from Belgium), 25% knee-eliminating sorrowful relief and 25% unadulterated extract of rage. (Of course John doesn't believe in that sort of thing; food does not contain our emotions; it’s not even a decent metaphor for them, but hell, that's how he feels; fuck.)
“I'm not feeding you,” he says, when Sherlock barely manages to sit up on the sofa.
“I'm not putting my head in your lap then,” Sherlock says, sleepily, taking the bowl.
*****
London comes awake with a jerk, the hawthorns on Primrose Hill the color of fresh blood. The city celebrates, or no, it doesn’t, but perhaps it ought to, to celebrate, to burst out in the kind of Latinate melodrama it might not be meant for: for its returned daemon, its genius; for the good light and the good name and the Crown Jewels and the currency, the banks and the Yard and the theatres and the art museums should rejoice. Well, fuck it, then, London awakens.
Author:
aderyn8Pairing: Gen, but could be interpreted as Sherlock/John
Length: 3,291
Rating: T
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: "When Sherlock comes back from the dead, he comes back dead. Or that’s what John thinks at first.
...and then the violets come in at the house across the street."
A little help from the living, and the dead: Because this story can’t be written.
Reccer's comments: Can the written word convey a palette? This story certainly takes on the hues of a hand-tinted vintage photograph: grays, silvers, with sudden splashes of bright color. One of my favorite post-Reichenbach works. It features a wonderful premise (a metaphorical take on Sherlock's return), rhythmic prose, and a haunting, dream-like atmosphere. Many characters, including a few never seen alive onscreen, have cameos, thus bringing the past into the present (a theme in many of aderyn's ficlets and one-shots).
Note: Per the author's comments, this one-shot could be taken as a sequel to Black Dog, or Elegy for an Idiot.
Two excerpts:
Sherlock wakes, finally, and he needs to eat, so John brings him a soup made of 50% vegetables from the market (tiny expensive spinach probably imported from Belgium), 25% knee-eliminating sorrowful relief and 25% unadulterated extract of rage. (Of course John doesn't believe in that sort of thing; food does not contain our emotions; it’s not even a decent metaphor for them, but hell, that's how he feels; fuck.)
“I'm not feeding you,” he says, when Sherlock barely manages to sit up on the sofa.
“I'm not putting my head in your lap then,” Sherlock says, sleepily, taking the bowl.
*****
London comes awake with a jerk, the hawthorns on Primrose Hill the color of fresh blood. The city celebrates, or no, it doesn’t, but perhaps it ought to, to celebrate, to burst out in the kind of Latinate melodrama it might not be meant for: for its returned daemon, its genius; for the good light and the good name and the Crown Jewels and the currency, the banks and the Yard and the theatres and the art museums should rejoice. Well, fuck it, then, London awakens.
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