221B Recs

Title: Sherlock's Dreamwork: The Client Chair
Author: plaidadder
Pairing: Gen
Length: 1,051
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC

Author's summary: None. A meta on TAB as Sherlock's dreamworld, specifically looking at how Mary is treated in contrast to the other women in the episode and what that might say about Sherlock's state of mind regarding Mary in the wake of HLV.

Reccer's comments: Although TAB is just one episode and a "special" at that, it is such a structurally and symbolically rich work that it is inspiring some interesting, thoughtful meta.

As TAB is not historical fiction, but rather a Mind Palace episode powerfully influenced by an overdose of drugs and interrupted only once or twice by the show’s waking “reality”, it makes sense to analyze it as a dream. Although I don't think this meta’s central argument represents the key to the entire episode as claimed, I certainly agree that it helps us understand one of the two central stories that are interwoven in this brilliant bit of television: 1) Sherlock’s fantasy remixing of HLV and 2) the mystery tied to Moriarty’s seeming return and its link to Sherlock's struggle to acknowledge the legitimacy of his emotions and embodiment.

The story that is explored so well in this meta is a re-working-out of HLV in a way that allows Sherlock to give John who he thinks John wants: "Mary", someone who Sherlock believes is better than himself, “an unprincipled drug addict”. Plaidadder notes that Mary is set apart from the “brides” and their conspiracy, who, as demonstrated by the mystery’s solution, “can be endlessly substituted for each other”. Moreover, unlike them Mary is doubled: she is the inverse of the brides in her black veil and dress, but she is also the spy who finds the brides before “Holmes” does. Sherlock, plaidadder argues, “quarantines” Mary’s real-life recklessness, propensity for violence, and remorselessness by assigning them to the brides, giving her instead the roles of a clever and selflessly patriotic spy and loyal, if put-upon, wife. Such a woman should be an ideal spouse for John, yet the fractured narrative and symbolism of the dream/Mind Palace hint that however competent and selfless Mary is in this dream world, she still may be a terrible denger to John and Sherlock in the show’s reality. As plaidadder points out, Mary in a widow’s attire suggests that she has lost her husband. On the surface it’s a passive-aggressive protest over John’s lack of interest in married life and her; but the choice of black is also the same color as her assassin’s gear the night she mortally wounded Sherlock. Mary is not just a dissatisfied woman just dressed like a widow, she is also an expert assassin who almost certainly has been a widow-maker and seems quite capable of making herself a widow for real if she felt it necessary. No amount of ret-conning by Sherlock can erase this. Because of her dangerous past actions and lack of repentance, at least part of Sherlock’s mind seems to question to whether she is truly refomed. Remember what Lestrade asked her: “Are you for or against?” It may be only a moment of pro-feminist humour, but I suspect it may also be Sherlock—remember the characters are of Sherlock’s constructing and represent at certain times his perception of them and at others different aspects of his own psyche—wondering if she can truly be trusted, even as he also tries to sell himself on the idea that Mary is the worthy partner of John.

In the end, Sherlock appears to have solved the Moriarty-related mystery and even made a bit of progress regarding his emotions and embodiment, but Mary remains, for now, a unsolved mystery.

Title: Chanson Triste
Author: fengirl88 On Ao3
Pairing: Ella/Anthea
Length: 603
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC

Author's summary: Anthea's love of French is one of the things Ella can't share.

Reccer's comments: I admire Ella and Anthea's relationship in the series Sleeping Beauty, but have highlighted this particular ficlet because of the musical references. Clearly fengirl88 is quite knowledgeable about classical music, including the vocal repertoire! She's selected a chanson [French art song] that fits one aspect of Ella and Anthea's relationship: both women work long hours in highly stressful, important jobs. To have a someone in whom, according to that chanson, "moonlight lies dormant,/A gentle moonlight of summer", someone full of "brightness" who can soothe and support their lover through sorrow and pain is priceless. There's also a little meditation on perfection vs. "good enough" in life and work that illuminates the nature of their love.

I heartily recommend listening to the recording linked at the bottom of the page. If you do not speak French, I'd also use the lyrics and their translation listed here.

Title: Synonymous Angels
Author: Aderyn
Pairing: Gen or Sherlock/John (author lists as both)
Length: 2,119
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC

Author's summary: He’s on the side of the angels…and they’re on his.

Reccer's comments: Aderyn long has been one of my favorite authors in the fandom. Her spare style leans heavily towards prose poetry; striking imagery and blurring the lines between dreams and reality, the natural and supernatural, frequently charge her work with tension even when the surface appears placid. For example, in this work, no overtly dramatic event takes place, no actual reunion between Sherlock and John, or revelation that Sherlock lives. Still, the passing of time brings tension, as Sherlock's return draws closer.

Aderyn excels at the depiction of mourning, John's main activity in this work, usually pairing it with healing, or at least hope. Winter (grief) followed by the promise of resurrection of growing things in spring is evoked near the end by the OFC Eleri in a graveyard conversation with John that he later echoes in a question for the stone angel, suggesting that Sherlock will return as tangibly as the plants now lying beneath the ground:

( Read more... )

Communication is the other primary activity in this one-shot: directly between Mycroft and Sherlock (but we only hear Mycroft's words), John with the gravestones (including the angel), John with Sherlock (but only in John's dream), Molly and Eleri with John. Plenty of nonverbal communication occurs too, primarily through the gifting of flowers and the calls of the birds. Nor does the mourning angel statue in the cemetery speak to John directly, but John does speak to her and one has a sense of a healing presence, embodied by two human women: Molly and Eleri, one of the Homeless Network (or is she one of Mycroft's? that happily is left ambiguous, for the reader to decide). These women, the synonymous angels, are John's quiet guardians, helping him with the work of grieving without abandoning their own work.

Title: 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.