Fic Rec: carrion comfort
Nov. 13th, 2017 04:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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221b_recsTitle: carrion comfort
Author:![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
SarahT
Pairing: Gen
Length: 4752
Rating: Mature
Warnings: implied character death
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: Companionship is where you find it.
Reccer's comments: What a joy to find that the disappointments of S4 didn't shake SarahT loose, but fired the author up instead. They've served up a few excellent Mycroft-centric fics in the last year, but this one came fast and ferocious on the heels of TFP.
The author is adept at conveying mood, and plunges here without hesitation into the dark well of resentment and misery where we find Mycroft after his retrieval from the cell in Sherrinford. The fic is a portrait in negative space of a brittle, traumatized man who has lost his sense of personal safety, mental stability, professional security and family connection.
Self-isolated, self-loathing, unable to accept support, Mycroft is stalked throughout by an unnerving shadow - a character recognizable to fans of the actor's other television work but fully independent here - who offers cruel insight and finally a sort of resolution.
The man was seated at his desk, his feet up, tapping a pencil against his nails.
“You’re quite right,” he said, in that soft, caressing voice. “She won’t ever change. She’s never cared for you, and now she’s finally found her justification.”
His tone both acknowledged the cruelty of the situation and relished it. Mycroft shivered, a cold blankness rolling through him, robbing his extremities of strength. There was a panic button less than two feet away. It might have been a thousand miles.
“How did you get in here?” he asked, mechanically. “This is a secure facility.”
“It is, technically, a public place. I’m permitted.”
“You’re per—who are you?”
“You know that perfectly well, Mycroft,” he said patiently.
“No,” he insisted, “I don’t.”
“Don’t you?” The man rose with weary elegance and tugged down his jacket with a sharp little jerk. He circled the desk to Mycroft, stopping when he was less than a foot away. Dead black, dead white, plain red tie, no texture or ornament. “I’m the one who knows how disappointing it was for a brilliant mathematician to give up her career for a boy who could never give her anything of what she’d been promised. I’m the one who knows that her husband, who’d just wanted a lad to go fishing with—not so much to ask, was it?—got a prissy little swot instead. I’m the one who knows that Sherlock—“
“Enough!” It was ripped from him. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Oh, Mycroft,” the man’s voice was breathless amusement, “You can’t stop.”
For a moment, it felt true, paralyzingly true. Then he pushed it away. “I’m calling security,” he said, and lowered his hands.
Gone. He looked around the room, even glanced under the desk. Gone.
This is a horror story, no apologies, no happy endings. Bitter greens to cleanse the palate, if you like.
Author:
Pairing: Gen
Length: 4752
Rating: Mature
Warnings: implied character death
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: Companionship is where you find it.
Reccer's comments: What a joy to find that the disappointments of S4 didn't shake SarahT loose, but fired the author up instead. They've served up a few excellent Mycroft-centric fics in the last year, but this one came fast and ferocious on the heels of TFP.
The author is adept at conveying mood, and plunges here without hesitation into the dark well of resentment and misery where we find Mycroft after his retrieval from the cell in Sherrinford. The fic is a portrait in negative space of a brittle, traumatized man who has lost his sense of personal safety, mental stability, professional security and family connection.
Self-isolated, self-loathing, unable to accept support, Mycroft is stalked throughout by an unnerving shadow - a character recognizable to fans of the actor's other television work but fully independent here - who offers cruel insight and finally a sort of resolution.
The man was seated at his desk, his feet up, tapping a pencil against his nails.
“You’re quite right,” he said, in that soft, caressing voice. “She won’t ever change. She’s never cared for you, and now she’s finally found her justification.”
His tone both acknowledged the cruelty of the situation and relished it. Mycroft shivered, a cold blankness rolling through him, robbing his extremities of strength. There was a panic button less than two feet away. It might have been a thousand miles.
“How did you get in here?” he asked, mechanically. “This is a secure facility.”
“It is, technically, a public place. I’m permitted.”
“You’re per—who are you?”
“You know that perfectly well, Mycroft,” he said patiently.
“No,” he insisted, “I don’t.”
“Don’t you?” The man rose with weary elegance and tugged down his jacket with a sharp little jerk. He circled the desk to Mycroft, stopping when he was less than a foot away. Dead black, dead white, plain red tie, no texture or ornament. “I’m the one who knows how disappointing it was for a brilliant mathematician to give up her career for a boy who could never give her anything of what she’d been promised. I’m the one who knows that her husband, who’d just wanted a lad to go fishing with—not so much to ask, was it?—got a prissy little swot instead. I’m the one who knows that Sherlock—“
“Enough!” It was ripped from him. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Oh, Mycroft,” the man’s voice was breathless amusement, “You can’t stop.”
For a moment, it felt true, paralyzingly true. Then he pushed it away. “I’m calling security,” he said, and lowered his hands.
Gone. He looked around the room, even glanced under the desk. Gone.
This is a horror story, no apologies, no happy endings. Bitter greens to cleanse the palate, if you like.
