This Man's Heart - Chapter 3
Jun. 20th, 2011 05:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellie_hellTitle: This Man's Heart - Chapter 3
Rating: PG for this chapter, but it will go up later.
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 2387
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured in a war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Beta: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and to disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anarion who, once again, helped me deal with my inability to write a mistake-free header.
A/N: Those who read my texting fic, something about this chapter will most likely sound familiar; part of what inspired me to write I Prefer to Text was this chapter.
Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 3
During the weeks that followed his first – however brief – meeting with The Beast, Sherlock continued to wander close to the Watsons’ grounds, but his clandestine expeditions were never successful. He was still sneaking around the village, listening to the tales of those who had encountered the masked man, but all he managed to gather were exaggerated descriptions of Watson’s deformity and silly theories according to which he was the devil’s son in person.
One July evening, Sherlock had been gathering lichen for an experiment on Burned Island when the weather turned ugly and he decided to get in his small rowboat and head back home. However, the wind became charged with mist and started blowing furiously. He was rowing as strongly as he could, feeling his arm, back and abdominal muscles becoming extremely taut and painful. He had just passed Enraged Cape and expected to make a direct line towards Sailboat Bay, but nature had other plans. A lightening bolt split the sky and rain started pouring violently, soaking Sherlock in just a few seconds. His small boat was swaying left and right while he continued to row, his destination uncertain as he had difficulties seeing the land ahead.
After a long struggle, his boat was snatched by a wave and spat out in West Birches Bay, a natural harbour deserted since the Watsons had arrived. He pulled his water filled boat onto the bank and decided to walk back home, which meant he would have to walk across the Watsons’ grounds. The Englishwoman’s warning hadn’t scared him before and with that awful weather, it was unlikely she’d be out. To stay warm, Sherlock started running as fast as he could. He was getting close to the manor when his foot got caught in a muddy root and he fell to the ground with a gasp of pain. He grimaced with both pain and resentment as he recognized the signs of a bad sprain, and he continued his way at a considerably slower pace.
While approaching the now empty fox enclosure, he thought he heard someone moaning and he turned his head towards the sound. He knew at one it wasn’t the cry of any animal that could be found in that forest and he limped closer as the moans turned into desperate sobs. There was a crouched shadow on the ground and as he approached, he saw a piece of red fabric. Ignoring his injury he hurried towards the man who then let out a heart-wrenching scream. He sounded so much like a wounded beast that Sherlock stopped, frozen. He had never heard a cry like that, like it was coming not from the man, but from the earth’s entrails. Watson had his face hidden behind his arms. Unmasked.
“Are you hurt?” Sherlock asked, crouching close to the other man.
There was a long silence, the rain had stopped and only the soft rustle of the wet leaves could be heard.
“Leave,” Watson said and his voice was as soft as the leaves, but trembling as if he was making spectacular efforts to keep an unbearable pain inside.
“Do you need a doctor?” Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving the trembling form of the man beside him.
Watson didn’t respond, only a choked sigh left his lips. A sound so soft and low Sherlock would’ve missed it if he had been just a little further.
“It’s a bad day for me too,” Sherlock continued. For some reason, he felt like he needed to keep talking, to say anything, that every word pronounced was weaving a thread between him and Watson.
“I rowed like a madman to return home, but I was blown off course by the wind and then, I sprained my ankle while running and it’s pretty swelled already. But I suppose what’s bothering you is more serious….”
The shadows of the moon were stretching between the trees, only sign of movement around them as Watson was holding his breath. Sherlock thought he looked the same age as he was, maybe older but not that much and before thinking about what he was doing, he stretched a hand towards the other man’s shoulder.
“Don’t!” Watson cried, abruptly standing to escape Sherlock’s touch.
He was still shielding his face from Sherlock’s gaze while towering over him, his eyes visible in the space between his arms. The two stared at each other: one pair of curious gray eyes locked on a pair of blue that looked almost black in the gloom of the storm. His eyes never leaving Watson’s, Sherlock got up slowly and the other young man took a step back before turning around and running back to the manor.
Sherlock stood for a while, waiting until Watson had disappeared to continue his way, barely feeling the pain in his ankle anymore. Soon after, a servant came running and asked him to accompany him back to the manor. Dumbfounded, Sherlock followed, letting the servant guide him until they reached the manor. What he saw inside, he would never be able to delete from his memory.
He had never set foot in such a place. Everything was vast and nothing was ordinary. The roof was way too high and the walls were decorated with immense paintings. It wasn’t a warm place, but a lot of small details captured his attention. Still following the servant, he crossed a corridor with more doors than he had ever seen in a single home. When they reached the last one, the servant stepped aside and gestured for Sherlock to go inside. He entered a room with a gigantic bed that looked nothing like the small one he slept in at home. From a single big window he could see the forest he had just come from and when he turned around, the servant had left and had closed the door behind him. A note was slipped under it and Sherlock half ran towards it, picking it up and reading:
Sir,
You are not a prisoner, but I would be grateful if you didn’t wander around the manor. Please try to rest and if you get hungry or if you want anything, slide this piece of paper under the door and a servant will come.
Good night,
John Watson
John. So he had a name…. Part of him wanted to open the door and explore the corridors, open the multiple doors until he found the masked man, but another part of him – a very annoying one – was telling him he had already invaded the other man’s privacy enough for one night, so he started looking around the room, opening all the drawers but sadly finding them empty save for one containing paper and pencils. Struck with an idea, he picked up a piece of paper and scribbled:
I’m sorry for earlier,
Sherlock Holmes
He folded the sheet of paper in two and slid it under the door. By now, he could feel the throbbing pain in his swollen ankle and he sat on the bed, his eyes never leaving the door. There was a thick towel and some dry clothes on the foot of the bed and he changed into them after drying himself off. He got under the very heavy and comfortable duvet, but he was way too excited to sleep and he couldn’t stop looking hopefully at the door.
After a while the exhaustion got the best of him and he dozed off for a few minutes before being awakened by a noise. He was disoriented for a few seconds, but when he realized where he was, he checked the door and saw what had awoken him; there was a piece of paper on the floor. A wave of excitement crashed through him and he got out of bed, wincing when his bad ankle hit the floor. He sat on the floor beside the door and read:
Nothing to be sorry about, but please don’t mention what you saw and where you slept to the villagers. My sister is not a bad person, but she would be furious if she knew you were here.
He grabbed a pencil and started thinking about what he would write next. He wanted to write something that would prompt a response if John walked by his door again. After a while, he was inspired and started scribbling.
How long were you in Afghanistan?
He stayed sitting where he was, with his back to the wall and his long legs stretched in front of him, trying to hear some noise outside the door. For a moment he thought he heard the soft rustling of paper, but nothing for long minutes afterwards so he supposed his mind was playing tricks on him. Just when he started considering going back to bed, the same piece of paper was slid back under the door.
How do you know about Afghanistan?
Smiling at the prospect of displaying his observation skill, Sherlock hurriedly wrote his answer.
This spring, we saw each other in the forest and I noticed your posture; it suggested military training. The way you ran so silently while dodging obstacles confirmed it, no man from a rich family would run like that without some intensive training. Being rich, no doubt you went to university. What university career would be most useful in the army? A doctor. Of course, there’s also your injury.
Judging from the fact that the scars only seem to cover the middle part of the left side of your face and that the rest of your body seems intact, I suppose you were shot. Judging from what I could see of the scars, I would say they are about four years old and come from either a hunting accident or a battlefield wound. You disapprove of your sister’s pastime, that’s why you released the foxes, so it wasn’t hunting. A battlefield, then. Four years ago, where would a British soldier have been stationed? Afghanistan.
Sherlock excitedly slid the paper under the door and that time he could clearly hear someone picking it up. Knowing John was on the other side of the door was unnerving, he was so tempted to open the door he almost ached, but he stayed still, knowing something important was going on. John was quick to respond.
That was amazing.
A smile from Sherlock, a few words scribbled and the piece of paper was back on the other side.
You think so?
Of course it was. It was extraordinary.
That’s not what people normally say.
What do people normally say?
Go away.
Sherlock was so close to the door that he couldn’t mistake the soft laugh he heard for something else. Their conversation could’ve easily been whispered – they were mere inches from each other – but the exchange of notes seemed so intimate that neither seemed ready to break the spell. He felt very close to the stranger on the other side, closer than he had ever felt to anyone other than his Aunt Martha. While waiting for an answer he knew was coming (he could hear the scribble of graphite against paper), he turned so his right arm was pressed against the wall and he could see the door better.
How’s your ankle?
Still swollen. And sore.
He heard retreating footsteps on the other side and he stayed where he was, waiting for John to return, because it was obvious he was coming back; he was a doctor. A doctor wouldn’t have left him alone after he had admitted being in pain. His thoughts strayed to the small pieces of John’s face he had caught a glimpse of. The right side seemed intact, but from the little he had spotted, the middle part of his left side was heavily damaged and what he had seen was obviously not the worst of it. He was trying to come up with strategies to see what was under the mask when John came back. Soon after, some bandages were slid under the door, along with a new piece of paper with a small note at the top.
It needs to be bandaged. Do you know how to do it?
I saw my aunt do it once. I should be fine.
Sherlock had indeed seen his aunt bandage Jim Moriarty’s ankle after he had sprained it while repairing their fence and he did exactly as she had done it, starting at the toes and working his way up, wincing a little. Feeling proud, he watched as the piece of paper was slid back his way.
Better?
Will be tomorrow. Thank you.
He didn’t send the paper back right away; he didn’t want their strange exchange to end. However, skilled as he was in many things, conversation was not his forte. He considered not answering, hoping that John’s doctor instincts would force him into the room to check up on him. He decided against it and added a line to his previous message.
I want to meet you. Properly.
For a few minutes, John didn’t respond and Sherlock was afraid he had left, but that didn’t make sense; he would’ve heard him leave. He didn’t seem like the type of person to leave without another word, but what did Sherlock know about the other man? A few facts he had deduced, nothing more. The piece of paper making its way back to his side of the door interrupted his thoughts.
Not tonight. It’s late and you need to rest. My sister comes back from her trip tomorrow, but she travels often. As soon as a good opportunity presents itself, I will send you a signal. Look often towards West Birches Bay and when you see it, come and meet me there.
Sherlock’s heart was beating so violently, he was sure John could hear it. He had offered to meet him; they would have the chance to talk and discuss the wild stories circulating around town. Sherlock could already think of dozens of questions he wanted to ask. Excited, he scribbled his answer and closed his eyes, trying to sooth his heart.
What’s the signal?
You’ll know. Good night Sherlock.
He grabbed the paper and clutched it in his right fist, holding it close to his heart. Said heart was still racing as he pressed his left hand to the door and whispered.
“Good night John.”
Next chapter
:::
Click here for the timeline.
Click here for the map
:::
Rating: PG for this chapter, but it will go up later.
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 2387
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured in a war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Beta: Thanks to
albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and to disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anarion who, once again, helped me deal with my inability to write a mistake-free header.A/N: Those who read my texting fic, something about this chapter will most likely sound familiar; part of what inspired me to write I Prefer to Text was this chapter.
Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 3
During the weeks that followed his first – however brief – meeting with The Beast, Sherlock continued to wander close to the Watsons’ grounds, but his clandestine expeditions were never successful. He was still sneaking around the village, listening to the tales of those who had encountered the masked man, but all he managed to gather were exaggerated descriptions of Watson’s deformity and silly theories according to which he was the devil’s son in person.
One July evening, Sherlock had been gathering lichen for an experiment on Burned Island when the weather turned ugly and he decided to get in his small rowboat and head back home. However, the wind became charged with mist and started blowing furiously. He was rowing as strongly as he could, feeling his arm, back and abdominal muscles becoming extremely taut and painful. He had just passed Enraged Cape and expected to make a direct line towards Sailboat Bay, but nature had other plans. A lightening bolt split the sky and rain started pouring violently, soaking Sherlock in just a few seconds. His small boat was swaying left and right while he continued to row, his destination uncertain as he had difficulties seeing the land ahead.
After a long struggle, his boat was snatched by a wave and spat out in West Birches Bay, a natural harbour deserted since the Watsons had arrived. He pulled his water filled boat onto the bank and decided to walk back home, which meant he would have to walk across the Watsons’ grounds. The Englishwoman’s warning hadn’t scared him before and with that awful weather, it was unlikely she’d be out. To stay warm, Sherlock started running as fast as he could. He was getting close to the manor when his foot got caught in a muddy root and he fell to the ground with a gasp of pain. He grimaced with both pain and resentment as he recognized the signs of a bad sprain, and he continued his way at a considerably slower pace.
While approaching the now empty fox enclosure, he thought he heard someone moaning and he turned his head towards the sound. He knew at one it wasn’t the cry of any animal that could be found in that forest and he limped closer as the moans turned into desperate sobs. There was a crouched shadow on the ground and as he approached, he saw a piece of red fabric. Ignoring his injury he hurried towards the man who then let out a heart-wrenching scream. He sounded so much like a wounded beast that Sherlock stopped, frozen. He had never heard a cry like that, like it was coming not from the man, but from the earth’s entrails. Watson had his face hidden behind his arms. Unmasked.
“Are you hurt?” Sherlock asked, crouching close to the other man.
There was a long silence, the rain had stopped and only the soft rustle of the wet leaves could be heard.
“Leave,” Watson said and his voice was as soft as the leaves, but trembling as if he was making spectacular efforts to keep an unbearable pain inside.
“Do you need a doctor?” Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving the trembling form of the man beside him.
Watson didn’t respond, only a choked sigh left his lips. A sound so soft and low Sherlock would’ve missed it if he had been just a little further.
“It’s a bad day for me too,” Sherlock continued. For some reason, he felt like he needed to keep talking, to say anything, that every word pronounced was weaving a thread between him and Watson.
“I rowed like a madman to return home, but I was blown off course by the wind and then, I sprained my ankle while running and it’s pretty swelled already. But I suppose what’s bothering you is more serious….”
The shadows of the moon were stretching between the trees, only sign of movement around them as Watson was holding his breath. Sherlock thought he looked the same age as he was, maybe older but not that much and before thinking about what he was doing, he stretched a hand towards the other man’s shoulder.
“Don’t!” Watson cried, abruptly standing to escape Sherlock’s touch.
He was still shielding his face from Sherlock’s gaze while towering over him, his eyes visible in the space between his arms. The two stared at each other: one pair of curious gray eyes locked on a pair of blue that looked almost black in the gloom of the storm. His eyes never leaving Watson’s, Sherlock got up slowly and the other young man took a step back before turning around and running back to the manor.
Sherlock stood for a while, waiting until Watson had disappeared to continue his way, barely feeling the pain in his ankle anymore. Soon after, a servant came running and asked him to accompany him back to the manor. Dumbfounded, Sherlock followed, letting the servant guide him until they reached the manor. What he saw inside, he would never be able to delete from his memory.
He had never set foot in such a place. Everything was vast and nothing was ordinary. The roof was way too high and the walls were decorated with immense paintings. It wasn’t a warm place, but a lot of small details captured his attention. Still following the servant, he crossed a corridor with more doors than he had ever seen in a single home. When they reached the last one, the servant stepped aside and gestured for Sherlock to go inside. He entered a room with a gigantic bed that looked nothing like the small one he slept in at home. From a single big window he could see the forest he had just come from and when he turned around, the servant had left and had closed the door behind him. A note was slipped under it and Sherlock half ran towards it, picking it up and reading:
Sir,
You are not a prisoner, but I would be grateful if you didn’t wander around the manor. Please try to rest and if you get hungry or if you want anything, slide this piece of paper under the door and a servant will come.
Good night,
John Watson
John. So he had a name…. Part of him wanted to open the door and explore the corridors, open the multiple doors until he found the masked man, but another part of him – a very annoying one – was telling him he had already invaded the other man’s privacy enough for one night, so he started looking around the room, opening all the drawers but sadly finding them empty save for one containing paper and pencils. Struck with an idea, he picked up a piece of paper and scribbled:
I’m sorry for earlier,
Sherlock Holmes
He folded the sheet of paper in two and slid it under the door. By now, he could feel the throbbing pain in his swollen ankle and he sat on the bed, his eyes never leaving the door. There was a thick towel and some dry clothes on the foot of the bed and he changed into them after drying himself off. He got under the very heavy and comfortable duvet, but he was way too excited to sleep and he couldn’t stop looking hopefully at the door.
After a while the exhaustion got the best of him and he dozed off for a few minutes before being awakened by a noise. He was disoriented for a few seconds, but when he realized where he was, he checked the door and saw what had awoken him; there was a piece of paper on the floor. A wave of excitement crashed through him and he got out of bed, wincing when his bad ankle hit the floor. He sat on the floor beside the door and read:
Nothing to be sorry about, but please don’t mention what you saw and where you slept to the villagers. My sister is not a bad person, but she would be furious if she knew you were here.
He grabbed a pencil and started thinking about what he would write next. He wanted to write something that would prompt a response if John walked by his door again. After a while, he was inspired and started scribbling.
How long were you in Afghanistan?
He stayed sitting where he was, with his back to the wall and his long legs stretched in front of him, trying to hear some noise outside the door. For a moment he thought he heard the soft rustling of paper, but nothing for long minutes afterwards so he supposed his mind was playing tricks on him. Just when he started considering going back to bed, the same piece of paper was slid back under the door.
How do you know about Afghanistan?
Smiling at the prospect of displaying his observation skill, Sherlock hurriedly wrote his answer.
This spring, we saw each other in the forest and I noticed your posture; it suggested military training. The way you ran so silently while dodging obstacles confirmed it, no man from a rich family would run like that without some intensive training. Being rich, no doubt you went to university. What university career would be most useful in the army? A doctor. Of course, there’s also your injury.
Judging from the fact that the scars only seem to cover the middle part of the left side of your face and that the rest of your body seems intact, I suppose you were shot. Judging from what I could see of the scars, I would say they are about four years old and come from either a hunting accident or a battlefield wound. You disapprove of your sister’s pastime, that’s why you released the foxes, so it wasn’t hunting. A battlefield, then. Four years ago, where would a British soldier have been stationed? Afghanistan.
Sherlock excitedly slid the paper under the door and that time he could clearly hear someone picking it up. Knowing John was on the other side of the door was unnerving, he was so tempted to open the door he almost ached, but he stayed still, knowing something important was going on. John was quick to respond.
That was amazing.
A smile from Sherlock, a few words scribbled and the piece of paper was back on the other side.
You think so?
Of course it was. It was extraordinary.
That’s not what people normally say.
What do people normally say?
Go away.
Sherlock was so close to the door that he couldn’t mistake the soft laugh he heard for something else. Their conversation could’ve easily been whispered – they were mere inches from each other – but the exchange of notes seemed so intimate that neither seemed ready to break the spell. He felt very close to the stranger on the other side, closer than he had ever felt to anyone other than his Aunt Martha. While waiting for an answer he knew was coming (he could hear the scribble of graphite against paper), he turned so his right arm was pressed against the wall and he could see the door better.
How’s your ankle?
Still swollen. And sore.
He heard retreating footsteps on the other side and he stayed where he was, waiting for John to return, because it was obvious he was coming back; he was a doctor. A doctor wouldn’t have left him alone after he had admitted being in pain. His thoughts strayed to the small pieces of John’s face he had caught a glimpse of. The right side seemed intact, but from the little he had spotted, the middle part of his left side was heavily damaged and what he had seen was obviously not the worst of it. He was trying to come up with strategies to see what was under the mask when John came back. Soon after, some bandages were slid under the door, along with a new piece of paper with a small note at the top.
It needs to be bandaged. Do you know how to do it?
I saw my aunt do it once. I should be fine.
Sherlock had indeed seen his aunt bandage Jim Moriarty’s ankle after he had sprained it while repairing their fence and he did exactly as she had done it, starting at the toes and working his way up, wincing a little. Feeling proud, he watched as the piece of paper was slid back his way.
Better?
Will be tomorrow. Thank you.
He didn’t send the paper back right away; he didn’t want their strange exchange to end. However, skilled as he was in many things, conversation was not his forte. He considered not answering, hoping that John’s doctor instincts would force him into the room to check up on him. He decided against it and added a line to his previous message.
I want to meet you. Properly.
For a few minutes, John didn’t respond and Sherlock was afraid he had left, but that didn’t make sense; he would’ve heard him leave. He didn’t seem like the type of person to leave without another word, but what did Sherlock know about the other man? A few facts he had deduced, nothing more. The piece of paper making its way back to his side of the door interrupted his thoughts.
Not tonight. It’s late and you need to rest. My sister comes back from her trip tomorrow, but she travels often. As soon as a good opportunity presents itself, I will send you a signal. Look often towards West Birches Bay and when you see it, come and meet me there.
Sherlock’s heart was beating so violently, he was sure John could hear it. He had offered to meet him; they would have the chance to talk and discuss the wild stories circulating around town. Sherlock could already think of dozens of questions he wanted to ask. Excited, he scribbled his answer and closed his eyes, trying to sooth his heart.
What’s the signal?
You’ll know. Good night Sherlock.
He grabbed the paper and clutched it in his right fist, holding it close to his heart. Said heart was still racing as he pressed his left hand to the door and whispered.
“Good night John.”
Next chapter
:::
Click here for the timeline.
Click here for the map
:::
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-06-20 11:58 pm (UTC)This: "What do people normally say?" "Go away." I need to invent an emoticon to express the joy I got from that line.
Oh, and Jim and Sebastian are Mrs. Turner's "married ones" - brilliant. :) (I caught that in Chapter 2, but wanted to keep reading, so I hope you don't mind if I post that with this chapter!)
As far as links go, I think as long as the previous and next chapters are linked, it's easy to navigate through the story. (Although I appreciated having the links to all the chapters so far, because somehow I'd missed the second chapter when it was originally posted and wanted to go back to the first chapter and refresh my memory before reading the second and third. So I guess I'm no help at all there, am I?)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-22 07:01 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked the 'Go away' line. I couldn't use the famously known piss off because the expression was unheard of until the 20th century. I feared it would sound unnatural, so I'm happy it worked for you.
Yes, they're the married ones and I am having so much fun with them. I didn't really need criminal masterminds, but I needed married ones and I like them in that role.
Once again, thanks for reading!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 12:02 am (UTC)I personally am okay with just a previous and next chapter link, but do what you feel works best.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-22 07:13 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're still reading, and thank you so much for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 01:19 am (UTC)As for chapters Previous and Next are probably enough. Or maybe First, Previous, and Next. That way if people link in from a comm they can quickly jump to the beginning.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-22 07:24 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, and I hope the next chapters will fully draw you in ;-)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 04:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-22 07:45 pm (UTC)Sherlock!Beast was my first idea; it seemed like the logical choice, but it didn't feel right. Then, I thought about John and about how moody he can be, about the war, about Harry, and it just worked. The characters basically wrote themselves after that.
(Yeah I know, I tend to talk too much) I suppose what I'm trying to say is thank you for deciding to read the first few lines, thank you for not stopping, and thank you so much for commenting. I'll try to make the whole process as pain free as possible ;-)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 07:53 am (UTC)This is gorgeous, I'm really loving it so far. I'm terribly curious, too! Oh well, if I still have questions at the end I'll pester you. Awful lot of people have died in this fic...
I want more. There will not be more until next week. Ergo, I need to go reread I Prefer To Text, since it's got a similar scene. *nods decisively*
no subject
Date: 2011-06-22 08:01 pm (UTC)As for people dying, I know there were a lot in the first chapters, but I couldn't write what I wanted to write if Sherlock and John's parents were still around. I suppose it's something else I borrowed from ACD canon. No more deaths in the future, I adore the characters and want to keep them as alive as I possibly can.
Aaww, have fun rereading I Prefer to Text, it fills me with warm fuzzies every time someone rereads something I wrote.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-26 09:16 am (UTC)Fair enough! Many of the best faerie stories start out with lots of tragedy, anyway.
I reread IPTT a lot, actually. A LOOOOOOT. It's just made of fluff and squee and cheers me up on bad days. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 11:48 am (UTC)As always: Beautiful description of the scenery. I can picture everything so clearly in my mind.
The raging sea, the forest, the rain.
And John. Oh God, poor John! What is he so desperate about?
I was thinking Clara, but the fox-Clara connection was for Harry, so it has to be something else.
And then Sherlock is invited to the castle! *bounces*
but another part of him – a very annoying one – was telling him he had already invaded the other man’s privacy enough for one night
Haha!
OMG, the door scene was my favourite in 'I prefer to text'!!! *squee*
It's totally different here, but equally beautiful!
John brought a new piece of paper with the bandages, maybe he wants to keep the other one?
And the last lines are heartbreakingly perfect! ♥♥♥
PS I read Floriography, it's great! Thanks for the rec.
no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 11:51 am (UTC)(I have been to lazy to do that with my fic until now. *ahem*)
no subject
Date: 2011-06-22 08:10 pm (UTC)I love doors and I'm glad you liked this door too. Perhaps I should make it my signature and put a door conversation in everything I write (aaww, sad glove and sad mitten stuck in two different rooms, separated by a door... why is the image making me sad?). Ha! You saw that John used a new piece of paper and you are correct, both men now have a piece of the conversation in their possession. It may or may not be the last time you hear about those.
Thank you so much for being awesome and leaving another squee-worthy comment. I love when I see a notification from you in my inbox.
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Date: 2011-06-24 01:08 pm (UTC)Don't fear, I will not throw anything. I am battling with my muse these days concerning chapter 7 of 'Another Blink'... She is not willing! Since slow process is better than none, I will sit here more or less patiently
well, rather less than more, but I will not throw things. Yet.Doors are good! Remember the door scene in my last chapter? That was the first thing for the chapter I had in mind.
And yes, now I am very sad about the sad glove and mitten, too. *sobs* Please open the door!
Ha! Indeed! I did notice that! *very proud*
I need to hear more about that! *pokes ellie*
Hehe, the last paragraph of your comment made me very happy! I love your awesome comments too and always squee when I get a notification from you as well! *hugs*
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Date: 2011-06-25 02:53 am (UTC)Hey! You! Don't be difficult!
Thanks for not throwing things, it's considerably harder to write when you need to avoid objects hurled at your head (and it's already so hard to write in summer).
Loved the door scene in your last chapter! Not just the door, but the whole thing with John getting up and slowly making his way to the sleeping Sherlock. It was incredibly sweet.
Just because you noticed the paper thing, now I want to look at my future chapters to see if there's something else I could do with that. I can't promise anything, but I'll keep my eyes open the next time I'm working on the later parts.
I should write. Please someone, kick me so I'll write.
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Date: 2011-06-25 09:57 am (UTC)We'll have to see what my beta says.
The paper thing needs to come up again.
If not I might be tempted to start throwing things!What if I say pretty please with a blowjob on top? A written one, of course. ;)
I really don't want to kick you. I am much better at throwing things. Plus I can't aim to save my life so you'd be pretty safe. *lol*
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Date: 2011-06-21 01:04 pm (UTC)Ok, here I am, looking forward for the next chapter ^_^
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Date: 2011-06-22 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-08 01:21 pm (UTC)Let's hope Sherlock can help him.
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Date: 2011-11-08 01:24 pm (UTC)