Fic Rec: A Study in Midnight

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Title: A Study in Midnight
Author: M_Leigh
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Length: 41,500 words
Rating: M
Warnings: none
Verse: ACD books, also a crossover with Neil Gaiman's "A Study in Emerald," which is itself playing within the works of H.P. Lovecraft.
Author's summary: In a world dominated by an alien monarchy, criminals Sherlock Holmes and John Watson work to take down the royal establishment while detective James Moriarty and his associate Sebastian Moran try to track them down. Also featuring Irene Adler, and Roderick Maclean, who did in fact exist. AU based on Neil Gaiman's phenomenal short story "A Study in Emerald."

Reccer's comments: I have never read Lovecraft or Gaiman, but this nightmarish dystopia drew me in immediately and the story, though darker and more violent than my usual fic tastes, kept me constantly absorbed, intrigued, and excited, and occasionally it completely pulled the rug from under me. It was darkly operatic in the best sense, theatrical and unashamedly Victorian but grounded in truly complex characterizations with delightful touches of dry wit. Throughout this story, we slowly learn that no one is quite what they seem.

It has one of the best Watson narrative voices I have ever encountered; the story at times switches to other POV characters in clearly marked sections, but the majority of the story is Watson's. He and Holmes are more broken, more desperate, more afraid and more bloody than I am used to seeing them, but they live in a horror show of a world, and despite it all they are deeply recognizable: Holmes fights for justice, and Watson fights for Holmes.

The story is beautifully written and paced, and the main secondary characters -- Irene and Moran -- are particularly interesting. A truly engrossing read.

Short Excerpt:

I flushed. “I have been out of the city for some time,” I admitted.

He nodded, and said nothing.

“Afghanistan,” I explained, once he had persisted in not saying anything for several long moments. “I was a doctor there, in the war.” I gestured to my leg. “Didn’t quite make it out unscathed. Dreadful bomb it was, that got most of my unit.”

“Curious,” he said, staring at me. “Tell me, do people truly believe you when you tell them you have been there?”

“I –” I started. “Whatever do you mean? I have of course been, and come back, and here I am.”

“You have never stepped foot in Afghanistan,” he said, still staring intently at my face. He did not look into my eyes, exactly, but rather at everything around them. It was most unsettling. “You are underweight, to be sure, but not nearly as underweight as you would be if you had just spent a year at war and come home injured – I would wager that wound a year old, at least – and you are not nearly brown enough. And I have never yet met an army man who volunteers such detail about an injury, especially an injury purportedly sustained in an attack that would have killed several of his comrades.

“I would,” he concluded thoughtfully, “continue to mention the injury – a moment of self-deprecation, here and there, would not be out of character – but nothing more. This will not only make you more convincing, but will also make people wonder about you – and unless you are truly in the business of keeping out of sight of everybody this is not a bad trait to possess.”

I was not surprised to hear him say so. He seemed to have cultivated it quite successfully in himself.

I held out my hand. “James Wilson,” I said.

“Hardly,” he snorted, but his eyes were flashing with something that looked almost like delight. “But please, do not tell me. I would like to figure it out myself.”

“As you wish,” I told him. “But you have not told me your name.”

“Sherry Vernet,” he said after a moment, and reached his hand out to shake mine. “It is a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wilson.”

“Doctor,” I corrected him.

“I think not,” he scoffed, and invited me inside.