221b_recs | Fic Rec: The Madness of Angels (Reply)

Title: The Madness of Angels
Author: ayalesca
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 87,457
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Canonical and Minor Character Deaths
Verse: Sherlock BBC

Author's summary: Urban fantasy AU. In which John Watson is a war sorcerer recently invalided home from Afghanistan. In London he meets Sherlock Holmes, the world’s most irritating urban sorcerer and only consulting detective. There, John finds himself and Sherlock suddenly under attack by a mysterious and malevolent power—and drawn into a mystery that may tear London apart. A fusion with the Matthew Swift series by Kate Griffin, but no prior knowledge is needed.

Reccer's comments: No S3 Spoilers

This impressive work is one of my favorite BBC series fics.

The bare facts: it is a fusion (with crossover elements consisting of cameos from two urban magic series) that requires no knowledge of the originals to steal your breath, squeeze your heart, and cause you to pound the nearest surface in amazed delight. The vivid, sharply realized settings and the stunning way in which John, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Irene just fit as their IC selves into the dangerous and fantastic landscapes of the City of London is truly remarkable. Let me not leave out the brilliant dialogue, the skillfully re-imagined S1 and S2 cases, and the plot twists so gorgeously done that my sole desire (aside from thanking the author) was to find the other enraptured commenters and hold a joyously raucous re-reading party.

I'll be honest: This fic reminds me exactly why I fell deeply, madly in love with the BBC series in 2011.

Excerpt:

“What are you exactly, John?”

“Washed-up RAMC,” John says lightly.

“Oh, no, I think there’s rather more to you than that,” Sherlock breathes.

He grabs John by the elbow and yanks him to a stop; John nearly stumbles. He gets his footing back and has his mouth open to swear at Sherlock when the iron-like grip loosens, shifts, and then Sherlock takes John’s hand in his own with surprising gentleness. Their eyes meet, dark blue to an ice blue so intense that John has to remind himself to breathe. Then John feels a softly glowing warmth in his hand, and in the next instant all of London thrills through John’s body and his heart suddenly jumps, resets its rhythm, palpitates, and then pounds in the rhythm of cars stopping and starting at thousands of traffic lights. His head fills with the laughter and sorrow of eight million souls; his lungs fill with the air they inhale and exhale. John closes his eyes and allows himself to exist within every footstep on every cobblestone, every raindrop falling on every roof, every spark of electricity burning through every streetlamp in London.

Sherlock pulls away and his gaze is challenging, his lips mocking.

Silently John reaches into his pocket and takes out the shell casing belonging to the bullet that is currently lodged in a dead serial killer’s heart. Sherlock’s face opens in a grin and John is absurdly pleased by Sherlock’s smile.

He reaches out for Sherlock’s hand.

The shell casing firmly fixed in his mind, John clears the London fog from their eyes and shows them both the clear starry night skies above a starkly beautiful desert. He fills both their lungs with the rush and roar of air during a parachute jump. He makes their hearts step in time with the inexorable march of conquering soldiers down through thousands of years of history. Then he presses the shell casing between his and Sherlock’s hand. He feels the sharp, desperate struggle between life and death imbued into the metal; he can feel the tiny thing pulsating as if it were the heart that it had stopped so recently.

And he sends a thrill of power into Sherlock’s body, filling him with the hot roar and spray of blood that the bullet remembers and will always remember.

“You’re a war sorcerer,” Sherlock says the words like a spell that is new to him: feeling the words for their hidden powers, tasting and feeling them for secrets and nuances. His eyes are scanning over John, studying every molecule of him, sniffing out every tendril of magic that is awakening deep inside John’s blood. “How can you be this powerful in London?”

“Because you are a battlefield,” John whispers, and with that realization his world blurs, reels, and then snaps into razor-sharp focus again.