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chapbook.livejournal.comTitle: Hitting the Water at Sixty Miles an Hour
Author: what_alchemy
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 30,567
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: “You love your mother, Sherlock?”
John watched the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw jump. He nodded in one sharp jerk.
“Then we’re going to her party and making her happy.” John let out a resigned sigh. “As a ruddy couple, you bastard.”
Reccer's comments: No S3 Spoilers
What_Alchemy does many things I love in this fic. There's dialogue so IC (its rhythm, the vocabulary choices for the different characters, and syntax) that I can easily hear the entire thing spoken by the actors. Character interaction that is true to the dynamics we've seen in S1 and S2. The setting (Outer Hebrides Islands) is vividly described and provides new situations that in turn spark a range of reactions, including character insights and growth. Don't think that the scenery is window-dressing; by the final chapter the islands' interaction with the characters give the evolving relationships their proper weight.
Mummy is a wonder: by turns warm and melancholic, she is brilliant, flirtatious, and iconoclastic. One can clearly see how different traits of hers were passed on to Sherlock and Mycroft. I adore that she has a family on her own terms, not needing the conventional script that so often is positioned as the ideal choice in Western society. The family dynamics are both amazing and realistic; it's clear Mummy and her sons all love each other deeply, but over time sibling love and admiration deformed into carping and jealousy. John shakes things up, but he too is capable of hurting loved ones. Finally, I admire the joy that runs underneath the sharpest moments of sorrow and anger; never do you doubt the characters' love for each other, or that goodness can be found in each.
Excerpt:The Bridge to Nowhere was not far at all from Caisteal a’ Mhorair. And sure enough, it was just a concrete bridge nestled in some flora. It was on a headland that overlooked the coastal sands down below. There was a plaque declaring it the only relic of Lord Leverhulme’s failed route from Tolsta Village to Ness. Down on the beach were some other people, caravanning. John could see them cracking cans of beer, reclining in beach chairs. Their voices and merriment carried all the way up to the Bridge to Nowhere. Mycroft sneered at the display, and John could tell Sherlock wished to do so as well but also wished never to be seen agreeing with his brother. John wondered if his face would break with the strain of it.
Mummy chided them. “Don’t be so elitist,” she said. “It takes all kinds, you know that. Where do you think I got you lot?”
Mycroft and Sherlock had never looked so much alike as when they were gaping at their mother in abject horror. John took a picture and wondered how much it would cost to get it blown up and framed for over the mantle. Perhaps he’d have a copy made for New Scotland Yard.
“Mummy…” Mycroft lowered his voice. “You told me my father was an MP.”
“And he worked very hard to earn his position.” Mummy’s eyes went soft and dreamy and just a touch filthy. “And in the garden. And on the grounds. And in my—”
“Yes, Mummy, thank you,” Sherlock said, mouth pinched into a moue of distaste.
“Please tell me Sherlock’s father was a travelling circus performer,” Mycroft said.
“Of course he was, dear,” Mummy said.
“Don’t patronise me, Mother,” Mycroft grumbled.
“I’m going to follow this path,” John said in a raised voice. He had crossed the bridge, and beyond it there was a worn footpath that led around the summit. He was not three strides in before Sherlock matched his pace. He could hear Mycroft and Mummy following along behind them, speaking in low murmurs. Sherlock and John trudged along in companionable silence, their hands occasionally brushing. The path was narrow, and before them unspooled nothing but vast waters. The endless blue of the ocean made John feel free, almost as if it would take nothing to rise into the sky and head towards the horizon. His hand brushed Sherlock’s again, and he wondered if he were really Peter in this scenario or if he were Wendy dragged along for the ride. There was something perpetually childlike in Sherlock, after all — and sometimes that wasn’t even an insult. On good days, he approached the world with a wonder John envied. And if anyone could defy the laws of physics and take to the sky, it would be Sherlock Holmes. He’d done it once before, after all.
“Don’t go brooding on me, John,” Sherlock said. The interruption broke John’s reverie and he glanced over. Sherlock was staring resolutely ahead, brows furrowed, mouth drawn downwards.
“What are you—”
“And don’t lie. It is not among your considerable skills.”
John’s mouth snapped shut, but Sherlock kept going.
“When you think about my… absence, your shoulders hunch by three degrees, your breathing becomes shallower, and you clench your left hand as well as your jaw. You might as well be broadcasting on BBC 1.”
John reflexively clenched his jaw. “Well, I can’t help it, and you don’t actually get to dictate my emotions or my expressions of them. I’m not having this row with you right now. We’ve had a lovely day, can you leave it there?”
John took Sherlock’s silence as acquiescence. They walked further, the white of the sand below stark against vivid blues and greens. The world looked like a painting. The world looked as if John could reach out and smear the oils, make it his own. He felt Sherlock’s hand nudge hesitantly against his, the spindly fingers unpracticed and fumbling.
John tangled their hands together and held on.
Author: what_alchemy
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 30,567
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: “You love your mother, Sherlock?”
John watched the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw jump. He nodded in one sharp jerk.
“Then we’re going to her party and making her happy.” John let out a resigned sigh. “As a ruddy couple, you bastard.”
Reccer's comments: No S3 Spoilers
What_Alchemy does many things I love in this fic. There's dialogue so IC (its rhythm, the vocabulary choices for the different characters, and syntax) that I can easily hear the entire thing spoken by the actors. Character interaction that is true to the dynamics we've seen in S1 and S2. The setting (Outer Hebrides Islands) is vividly described and provides new situations that in turn spark a range of reactions, including character insights and growth. Don't think that the scenery is window-dressing; by the final chapter the islands' interaction with the characters give the evolving relationships their proper weight.
Mummy is a wonder: by turns warm and melancholic, she is brilliant, flirtatious, and iconoclastic. One can clearly see how different traits of hers were passed on to Sherlock and Mycroft. I adore that she has a family on her own terms, not needing the conventional script that so often is positioned as the ideal choice in Western society. The family dynamics are both amazing and realistic; it's clear Mummy and her sons all love each other deeply, but over time sibling love and admiration deformed into carping and jealousy. John shakes things up, but he too is capable of hurting loved ones. Finally, I admire the joy that runs underneath the sharpest moments of sorrow and anger; never do you doubt the characters' love for each other, or that goodness can be found in each.
Excerpt:
Mummy chided them. “Don’t be so elitist,” she said. “It takes all kinds, you know that. Where do you think I got you lot?”
Mycroft and Sherlock had never looked so much alike as when they were gaping at their mother in abject horror. John took a picture and wondered how much it would cost to get it blown up and framed for over the mantle. Perhaps he’d have a copy made for New Scotland Yard.
“Mummy…” Mycroft lowered his voice. “You told me my father was an MP.”
“And he worked very hard to earn his position.” Mummy’s eyes went soft and dreamy and just a touch filthy. “And in the garden. And on the grounds. And in my—”
“Yes, Mummy, thank you,” Sherlock said, mouth pinched into a moue of distaste.
“Please tell me Sherlock’s father was a travelling circus performer,” Mycroft said.
“Of course he was, dear,” Mummy said.
“Don’t patronise me, Mother,” Mycroft grumbled.
“I’m going to follow this path,” John said in a raised voice. He had crossed the bridge, and beyond it there was a worn footpath that led around the summit. He was not three strides in before Sherlock matched his pace. He could hear Mycroft and Mummy following along behind them, speaking in low murmurs. Sherlock and John trudged along in companionable silence, their hands occasionally brushing. The path was narrow, and before them unspooled nothing but vast waters. The endless blue of the ocean made John feel free, almost as if it would take nothing to rise into the sky and head towards the horizon. His hand brushed Sherlock’s again, and he wondered if he were really Peter in this scenario or if he were Wendy dragged along for the ride. There was something perpetually childlike in Sherlock, after all — and sometimes that wasn’t even an insult. On good days, he approached the world with a wonder John envied. And if anyone could defy the laws of physics and take to the sky, it would be Sherlock Holmes. He’d done it once before, after all.
“Don’t go brooding on me, John,” Sherlock said. The interruption broke John’s reverie and he glanced over. Sherlock was staring resolutely ahead, brows furrowed, mouth drawn downwards.
“What are you—”
“And don’t lie. It is not among your considerable skills.”
John’s mouth snapped shut, but Sherlock kept going.
“When you think about my… absence, your shoulders hunch by three degrees, your breathing becomes shallower, and you clench your left hand as well as your jaw. You might as well be broadcasting on BBC 1.”
John reflexively clenched his jaw. “Well, I can’t help it, and you don’t actually get to dictate my emotions or my expressions of them. I’m not having this row with you right now. We’ve had a lovely day, can you leave it there?”
John took Sherlock’s silence as acquiescence. They walked further, the white of the sand below stark against vivid blues and greens. The world looked like a painting. The world looked as if John could reach out and smear the oils, make it his own. He felt Sherlock’s hand nudge hesitantly against his, the spindly fingers unpracticed and fumbling.
John tangled their hands together and held on.
Tags:
- character: holmes' mother,
- character: john watson,
- character: mycroft holmes,
- character: sherlock holmes,
- content: kissing,
- content: meeting family,
- content: ust,
- genre: first time,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash m/m,
- holiday: birthday,
- pairing: jw/sh,
- theme: family,
- theme: female characters,
- verse: sherlock bbc
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