Fic: Galatea

[butterflyweb.livejournal.com]

Title: Galatea
Author: one_windiga
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 7970
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: John is a doll that Sherlock orders from a company online.

Reccer's comments: Another example of a premise that seems like crack say crack again but is anything but. Sherlock's loneliness in this fic is physically painful at points, and the way he toes the line of self-delusion and self-disgust is heartbreaking. I quite honesty had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat the whole way through, and believe me, it takes a lot to get that kind of reaction out of me with fic. I love the way one_windiga develops Sherlock's attachment to 'John'; how at first it seems like a lark, something he's playing at even, only to spiral into something devastatingly real as his rationalizations become more and more desperate. What takes this fic from lovely into brilliant, however, is the reactions of everyone else in Sherlock's life to his new flatmate. Everyone is just absolutely spot-on, from the Yard, to Lestrade, to Mycroft, to Mrs. Hudson...and of course, written to chilling perfection, Moriarty.


Lestrade was the first one to notice the man-sized mannequin leaning against the wall by the door where Sherlock had set him. “Sherlock, what - … what is that?”

Dismissively, without turning or raising his head, Sherlock replied, “John. Watson. New flatmate. Doctor. I brought him along, since clearly yours is incompetent enough to have actually diagnosed this as an assault. Clearly second opinions are entirely necessary.”

The team swiveled their heads around to the doll in near-perfect unison. John was short, solidly built, but in plastic, it was difficult to tell if that was supposed to be fat or muscle. He had been put into a rather old-fashioned jumper, if the cable pattern was anything to go by, and unobtrusive khaki pants. His smart leather shoes were new, but neatly tied. He had a full head of mousy brown doll hair, and his face stared back at them in an eerie expression of calm.

Donovan opened her mouth, shut it, swallowed, then tried again. “This… is what made you late?” Her expression was clearly repulsed, but Sherlock was far too busy extracting the earring from the Spanish moss to notice.

“Yes. We were forced to take a taxi.”

Lestrade paused a moment to try to parse through that logic. “So that you – wouldn’t have to carry it?”

“Don’t be daft, Lestrade, he has a limp. Psychosomatic, of course, but there you are.”

Comments

[swissmarg]

Oh gosh, excellent, excellent! Painful, yes, but with the best kind of payoff. Thank you, I wouldn't have seen this otherwise as it's a couple of years old now.