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In the Cellar, The Sound of the Sun

Title: In the Cellar, The Sound of the Sun
Author: ciaranbochna
Sherlock/John (pre-slash)
Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the world.
Length: 4561 Words
Rating:  PG
Summary: "its carefully crafted stops and starts haunt him with something like happiness."
Warnings: Character death
A/N: Beta'd by the wonderful team of caffienekitty (who has been encouraging my madness for almost 20 years) mad_teagirl and suchaprince. This was party inspired by my mother's swiss music box, and a children's book which I won't name (but if you know I will write you a ficlet).

Grandmother wouldn’t leave him alone in the room with the box after the first time she caught him trying to remove the mahogany back panel with a letter opener. He was certain he could put it back together, once he knew how all the tiny pieces and cylinders worked together. Well, fairly certain. He laid his ear against the top of the box while it played, listening to the ticks of the teeth on the cylinder. The miniature bells rang (why Liszt’s Hungarian rhapsodies required bells he didn’t know), and he heard the slight clunk as the cylinder dropped to start the next movement. The more he listened the less he wanted to study the box piece by piece. Sherlock was convinced it would never sound the same if he broke it apart.


He jolts awake on the couch, the melody of the music box playing in his mind. He sees John in the chair beside him. John is holding his book open with one hand (that dreadful religious farce) and sipping tea with the other. The hand holding the book is quavering slightly. John isn’t sleeping again. Except his eyes are not shadowed with fatigue, and he is breathing perfectly—no. There is a stutter as John inhales, placing the cup on the table before him.

“Out with it.” John sighs. He folds the book and drops it on the floor beside him. He presses his hands under his chin in a familiar pose and stares expectantly at Sherlock.

“Stop mocking me John. I was merely wondering why your hand is shaking, since you don’t seem to be suffering from insomnia. The clinic hasn’t been busy, and we are-” Sherlock makes a disgusted noise “-between cases.”

“Yes, hateful.” John smirks at Sherlock and drops his hands. “Would you like me to call Lestrade and tell him that you’re so bored you might resort to criminal activities?”

Sherlock snorts. “No need to be that blunt.” He sits up and turns to John.

John is gone. The little noises, irritated rustles, long sighs, creaking joints, the smell of John has disappeared.

But his body is still sitting just as it was in the chair. One hand is halfway out of his trouser pocket, phone gripped lightly between two fingers.

Sherlock leans closer. There is no strained tension in his muscles, no reason that John should be…he should be breathing, and isn’t. Sherlock’s fingers are digging into John’s arm before he realises he has moved. He drops to the floor beside John.

“You really are desperate aren’t you? Sherlock?”

Sherlock hears John return to the room as he speaks, his presence fracturing and filling the corners of the ceiling, the space between his chair and the couch, the tension of John’s muscles under Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock stands and strides (he does not flee) into the kitchen for tea. He empties the kettle and fills it again, letting the water spill over the top. He shuts the tap off and breathes slowly, methodically. He remembers to turn on the kettle only after walking away twice.

He imagined the teeth on the cylinder beneath the glass are tiny players, each one a member of the orchestra. Every time he turned the crank and released the music he was the conductor, as he spun around the library until the music faded. Music burrowed into the pages of the books, it charmed the rush inside his skull, and its carefully crafted stops and starts haunt him with something like happiness.

Sherlock sways, hand slamming into the frame of the kitchen archway.

“I think what you actually need is sleep.” John smells like Assam tea leaves and the curry he had for lunch.

“I’m fine John” Sherlock pushes past him. He hears John’s shoulder joint grind slightly as he watches Sherlock go.

Lestrade arrives early the next morning with a case. It takes Sherlock an hour and one glance at the man’s body to discern cause of death. Digitalis. He is sure there is a test for it at the lab, but Lestrade is saddled with the most unobservant team in London, so he shouldn’t be surprised they need his expertise.

Sherlock turns to leave after examining the body (he was hoping something more interesting would come in if he stalled) when John vanishes again. The mortuary rings with John’s silence. Sherlock turns and sees John, head cocked slightly to one side, hand hanging in the air.

“—Get going before you start dissecting live subjects” John continues as if nothing has happened.

John looks at Sherlock and closes his eyes. His gaze finally settles on the far wall. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck and backs up slightly. “I stopped didn’t I? Last night too.” He stares at Sherlock’s widened eyes.

“That’s why you were scrambling in the kitchen last night.” John smiles. His mouth twists after a moment and he slumps against a nearby autopsy table.

John waves a hand, and it catches in the air before dropping.

Sherlock knows it’s another symptom. Then he hears the rasp and click of a cylinder.

The music box was passed to his mother after grandmother died. He wasn’t allowed to play it as often, and he noticed the slightly laboured turning of the rollers at the beginning of each movement, and the bells were off by a 16th note. Once a year mummy would let him play it—if he was careful not to overwind it. The last time Sherlock pressed his ear to the box it sounded darker, faltering, imperfect. He hoped one day to find a box of his own.


Sherlock doesn’t recognize the music John is playing, but he knows what creates it. He takes one step closer to John, and another, so slowly he feels the chill of the air though the wool of his trousers.

John pulls the end of his little finger off, revealing a tiny key. He pulls off his jumper, drops it on the table, and unbuttons his shirt. He inserts the key directly into his chest, just over his heart, and opens his ribcage. It swings to the side on invisible hinges. John looks up at Sherlock, waiting.

Sherlock feels the need for a chair, but ignores it. He moves one last step closer. He can feel the warmth pouring from inside John, the smell of gold, silver, and the sound of music.

The mechanisms are so tiny; gears and cogs he can barely see whir and turn inside John’s chest. And the light moving along the levers, through the openings in each bit of pierced metal, whispering toward the centre, toward John’s heart.

It is so bright there are flashes of blue lingering behind Sherlock’s eyelids when he blinks. The music is coming from John's heart, the cobalt flashes he sees are the teeth covering it, and John’s heart is the most perfect cylinder he has ever seen. The light is thrown from John's heart as it turns. The music slows and then stops.

Sherlock watches John’s face as movement returns. Johns wavering smile shearing away more of Sherlock’s calm. He tells himself he is calm, and not something lost and uncontrolled.

“What can I do? There must be someone who can help. Surely an expert on automatons could—“ Sherlock stares into John’s eyes. “My apologies. You are nothing like a toy.”

John takes Sherlock’s hand. The scrolled key on the end of his little finger scratches against Sherlock’s palm.

“The music you’ve heard the past few days is a warning. It means my time—for lack of a better expression—is done. The people who created me are long gone, and they took their secrets with them. I think four hundred years on earth is long enough, don’t you?” John looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock feels the lie slide against his skin. “You have not spent enough of your time with me. What came before doesn’t matter.” Sherlock stares into John’s chest, he cannot raise his head.

John laughs, and a pulse of light splashes across Sherlock’s chest. John's light has stained his red linen shirt. Sherlock isn’t sure how to remove it, or if he ever will.

“How long?” He asks, letting go of John’s hand. Why was he still holding it?

“My life is chaos; I don’t think my death will end up easy to pin down. At a guess—no more than a few days. There are too many—“

John’s blink lasts one minute (exactly).

“--Stops and starts now, and they'll get longer every day.” John closes his ribcage and buttons up his blue cotton shirt. He picks up the tip of his little finger from the steel table. He stares at Sherlock for moment, then holds it out to him.

“Go on, I know you can’t resist.”

A piece of John drops into Sherlock’s hand. “How is it still warm after sitting on the table for so long? How can you process food with no digestive system? How long have you really been in London?”

I need you to tell me everything, every detail, every time you disappear, I need to list it all I need…

Sherlock realises John is pulling his arm and forcing him to sit in a chair by the door. He is sure the chair was never designed for extended use, his muscles are already cramping in protest.

“You. Cannot.” He growls the words past all the phrases broken under his tongue. John’s finger is trapped in Sherlock's fist, still warm.

“Cannot what, Sherlock? There's nothing you can do. Let's go home. I'll answer the rest of your questions there.” John closes his hand over Sherlock’s fist.

Sherlock's fingers open and he returns John’s finger reluctantly. “I will study it later, thank you.” He pushes himself out of the chair and walks out of the room. If he is a trifle unsteady, only John sees it.


John tosses his coat on the desk when they walk into the flat, heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Sherlock's coat is bunched up over one arm. There is something he needs--he knew before they walked in. He turns when he hears the kettle switch off.

John is standing with one hand in the kitchen drawer, the metal tea leaf strainer pinched between two fingers. His hand is shaking slightly, and his mouth twists with disgust.

“Take it.”

Sherlock can barely hear John’s voice. He pulls the strainer from John’s grasp and drops it into the top of the blue teapot. He pauses with the spoon in the porcelain container of loose tea.

“Three spoons.” John whispers. He walks into the sitting room, his right hand clenched over the left. The fingers are still pinched together.

“Wait three and half minutes and then pour it Sherlock.”

“Fine.” Sherlock drops a spoonful of blackberry honey into his cup, two spoonfuls of sugar into John’s. He can't break John of his addiction to refined sugar. John doesn’t need to drink at all, why would he bother making it? There is a hairline crack in the side of John’s mug, the temperature of the water is marking its progress down through the ceramic every day he uses it. Perhaps Sherlock should find a substitute.

John walks up behind him and takes the teapot, pouring both their tea with his right hand. John opens the fridge and pours milk into his cracked mug. Sherlock listens carefully for any sign of splintering.

John takes his mug and places his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock can feel John’s curled index finger twitching faintly against his linen shirt. Sherlock reaches past him and takes his mug, making his way back to the sofa.

He studies the swirled patterns of oil released from the tea leaves. He can smell the darkness of the honey, masking some of the bitterness of the Indian tea blend. Sherlock hears John sink into his chair and places his mug on the table. He keeps trying to straighten his fingers, the tendons in his left arm standing out as he pulls. John’s lips are pressed together, and the shadows around his eyes darken. Sherlock hears it all. He doesn’t need to see it.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve had a conversation where you won’t look at me.”

Sherlock burns his tongue on the tea. His teacup clicks faintly on the table and he deliberately turns toward John.

John’s left hand is buried in the side of the chair so he doesn’t have to look at the gnarled fingers. He stares at Sherlock for a moment. “You can go get an ice cube for your tongue, I’m not pinning you to the chair for this.” John smiles briefly.

Sherlock snorts. “Not important.”

John shrugs and begins to speak. “My parents couldn’t have children, but they were wizards with clocks and music boxes.” John notices Sherlock’s grimace. “Wait until I’m finished you impatient git, and then you can pick it all apart”

Sherlock sighs and pulls his legs up onto the sofa. He lies on his side and watches John, one hand under his head.

“You won’t find anyone who knows their work. They never signed them. My father would choose the wood, and mother would assemble the mechanisms. They both worked on the music that went in to each piece. Every box was an original composition so they weren’t as popular as other makers who used the songs of the time.” John sighs as he notices Sherlock picking at the seam of the sofa cushion. “Just this once you can focus Sherlock. It isn’t as if you’ll have to suffer through it again.

Sherlock’s finger draws a groove in the leather sofa. He can see the oxblood red under the edge of his nail, and the white line left it the wake of the pressure. He wants to explain that he isn’t impatient, isn’t being difficult (no more than usual). He is imprinting every word, gesture, sigh and movement to memory—and it cannot be wrong. He glances at John, and nothing comes out of his mouth.

“Alright, I know you're listening.” John reaches over and pulls a curl away from Sherlock’s eye.

The underside of Sherlock's skin is alive with copper wires; he can feel filaments tying themselves in Gordian knots. “Please continue.” Sherlock manages. A rumble just barely heard. He sees John wince and withdraw his hand. There are too many possibilities in the room, and Sherlock can’t sort them.

“Mom and dad weren’t well-off, but they had enough regular patrons to help support a family. And they wanted two children.”

“Harry!” Sherlock springs to a sitting position.

John looks at him, rolling his eyes at another interruption.

Sherlock sits back, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. His thumb rubs over a flaw in the weave of his trousers. He maps the shape of the tiny ball of thread, over and over.

“My parents used all the sounds of the world in their music. A Matta and Anselmus music box sounded like nothing else. They had sealed glass jars of every creak, bird song, raindrop, scream, and hum. Everything, including pieces of sunlight and shadow were kept in the cellar to preserve them perfect as the day they were caught.” John glances up from the empty bottom of his cup. "Shadows and sun do have a sound you know."

Sherlock’s hands are still. He sees everything John describes: a cellar filled with all the sounds of the world. He bends his head down to the stain of light on his shirt, listening.

“Oh for the love of god don’t do that.” John waits until Sherlock looks up. John closes his eyes and curls his right hand slightly. Something fills his hand, the room, and pushes Sherlock back into the sofa.

Sherlock’s hand is painted with the shadow-shapes of leaves, shadows broken by the trails of light filtering from above. He can judge the speed of the wind by the movement of foliage above him, reflected on his hand. But for just a moment the light rushes through him and his skin tightens in joy.

Sherlock heaves a great breath, hearing the leather whisper behind him as he shifts. John is watching him, hand hovering over Sherlock’s knee.

“Sorry, never done that before. I probably should have warned you.” John pulls on Sherlock’s hand where it is worrying the thread on his trousers again. John runs his thumb along Sherlock's vein, from the centre of Sherlock’s wrist upward, stopping at the edge of the rolled cuff.

Sherlock can hear the vibration in John’s thumb. Blood, or whatever it was that drove John on—the light, the metal, the… ”What is under your skin? Were your parents alchemists?” Sherlock’s fingers twitch as John pulls his hand away.

“No. My mother was an awful cook, who could burn the bottom of a pot trying to boil water, but could etch my name on a lever the size of a needle. My father could make a stew from rabbit, parsley, and a bit of mushroom that kings would kill for, and then carve the shape of the wind into a block of iron wood. They were extraordinary, and made music that few will ever hear, but what they really wanted were children.” John levered himself out of his chair and moved to sit beside Sherlock.

“Shove over will you?”

Sherlock refuses until John elbows him in the side. Sherlock leans towards the edge of the couch and pushes his feet against John until he wedges himself into the corner of the sofa. John moves sideways until Sherlock’s feet are flat against him. The fever pouring through John’s leg warms Sherlock's numb toes. He doesn’t remember John being so warm, but John has never invaded Sherlock’s space before either. He wonders if it is another sign that John is burning out. Sherlock finds another knot of thread on his trousers (he really shouldn’t have paid so much for them if they are so flawed) and waits for John to continue.

John holds his hand over Sherlock’s left foot and grimaces. “You aren’t a reptile you know; you could wear socks in the house.”

Sherlock feels the writing callus on the middle finger of John’s hand against the top of his foot. He adds the texture to the growing list of “John” jars in his memory.

“I have a will. There is a stipulation of no autopsy. When I’m gone, the illusion that I have blood, organs,—lasts for a day if I am lucky, but don’t rely on it.”

Every cell in Sherlock’s body stills. There is a hole in his trousers where the edge of his nail has furrowed the skin. He can feel the bead of blood running down his thigh. John is leaning toward him, forcing his chin up with a finger. Sherlock doesn’t remember making a sound.

“You will promise not to destroy yourself Sherlock Holmes. Quietly, or with an explosion. That is NOT an option. Got it?” Sherlock can hear the bright ping of music beneath John’s voice, but he doesn’t stop moving this time. Sherlock grits his teeth, memorizing the pad of a finger on his skin. He nods once, and vertebrae crack in his neck.

“Why are you so calm?” Sherlock doesn’t mean to say it. He pulls his feet away from John and tries to sit up, but John won’t let him. John moves in, pressing the tip of his finger to Sherlock’s lip. John’s other hand curls around Sherlock’s cheek, and he presses his head into Sherlock’s clavicle.

Sherlock’s hand digs into the sofa. His feet aren’t cold now, he is too warm. John smells like Russian caravan tea and gold left under the nearest star. Sherlock tastes bruised anguish in the back of his throat. He cannot stay here, but his legs won’t move. He fears there isn’t enough room in his memory for all the pieces of his…friend. There will never be enough space to remember.

John is shaking Sherlock. No, John is shaking so hard Sherlock quakes with him, sliding further down the sofa until John slumps against him. Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with his arms. He remembers something about—he curls his right arm around John’s back. He is sure they will fall off the sofa any moment.

John raises his head. The hand on Sherlock’s cheek drifts to his neck. Summer is running down the side of John’s mouth, trailing from his eyes. Sherlock can feel shattered light through his shirt.

“You’re wasting it John.”

John pulls away quickly. “There’s nothing as desperate as love. I can waste what I was given however I want, so shut it.”

Sherlock sits up, clenching his hands into fists. He lifts one hand and presses it to the hum where he knows John’s heart is. “Sorry.” He mumbles. John shakes his head and leans against him, too tired to stay upright.

He doesn’t know what to do with this. John is always steady, always there. John never needs anything.

“I am allowed to be a little tired and helpless once in a while.” John snorts.

Sherlock twitches and attempts a shrug—difficult with most of John’s weight against his side.


After two years at university (students as hopeless as their professors) Sherlock began to help Lestrade by solving his more difficult cases. What Lestrade considered difficult was a matter of opinion, but it was still an improvement on sitting through lectures. Lestrade started recommending him to his friends as well (Lestrade didn’t mention it, but he knew no one else on the team would bother). Sherlock had enough cases to find a flat of his own, tiny though it was. Too close to the tube station, but it was near a suitable coffee shop and Indian take-away that was tolerable enough. He didn’t have room for more than a small couch, desk, and bookshelf; but he didn’t sleep enough to warrant finding a bed. The kitchen was rarely used, other than to test theories. He made the occasional meal when he actually felt like eating (the nearby market had produce he considered fresh enough for his off-the-cuff culinary skills.

On the first night in his new flat he moved the books off the middle shelf and added the most import possession he owned, other than his violin. Sherlock carefully wound the music box and lifted the violin to his chin. He curled his music around the creaks, ticks, and pauses in the music, but the sound needed more depth. He decided to find two more music boxes and wrap the room with sound until all he heard was the echo of music through the wood, the chimes, and notes like falling needles of glass.


Music is easier to explain than wanting to bury himself in the earth. Inside the layers of sound he builds when he plays, there is a hush. A quiet that carries him for a little while before he is overwhelmed again. Sherlock can’t tolerate any other sounds around him when it happens, or people. But John’s voice, every movement he makes, slides under and through. As if there is already space for him.

Sherlock pulls John’s arm toward him and places his curled fingers against the pulse in Sherlock’s wrist. He presses John’s fingers down slightly, ensuring he can feel it. John is several degrees warmer than he was only an hour ago.

“Accelerated heartbeat. You’re not as calm as you seen Sherlock.” John laughs slightly, and his head drops onto Sherlock’s shoulder.

It has to be now. “John, I need you to come with me. I can carry you if you wish.” Sherlock’s voice is cracking apart.

“An arm over your shoulder ought to be fine. For the privilege of seeing your disastrous room I can manage.”

John said he might have days. Sherlock carries most of John’s weight, toes dragging along the floor as they walk to Sherlock’s room. This is less, but all he will have.

Sherlock lets John down gently on his bed, shoving the textbooks and papers onto the floor with a sweep of his arm. He walks to the bookshelf in the corner of his room and winds his grandmother’s music box. He winds the second box on the small shelf next to the window, and the one on his night table, next to John. He picks up his violin and tunes it with quavering fingers.

“I have never played this before, though I wrote it when I was ten, after my grandmother died. I was waiting for…” Sherlock waves his bow in the air, forcing himself to look at John.

John leans heavily against the headboard, and then winces. He reaches behind him and pulls out a small box made of tiger-maple. He opens it and pulls out sheet music. “You keep it under your pillow? I suppose you’re above leaving things for the tooth fairy.” John laughs, and the box falls from his hand as his body shuts down.

Sherlock almost drops his violin as he stumbles over to hold John. John opens his eyes after two minutes 43 seconds.

“Whatever you have planned mate, now might be the time.” John squeezes Sherlock’s arm. He runs a shaky hand through his hair.

“Can you play the music at will John? I need you to accompany me, if you are able.” Sherlock studies the lines on the back of John’s hand. He wonders at the two people who brought this man to life.

“Yes. But if I do..”

Sherlock can hear John swallow. “It’s fine John. No one else deserves this.” He digs his fingers into the dust on the quilt covering his bed. His eyes water with the need to sneeze.

“Just tell me when Sherlock. You deserve more than me you know. “

Sherlock buries his head in the joint of John’s shoulder. He hears levers and gears labour, trying to contain every imprint John has made. Sherlock knows they will fail. Just as he has.

Sherlock presses his lips to John’s skin. He feels John’s chin settle against him briefly.

He is opening the lid of the music box beside John. He doesn’t remember moving. Grandmother’s is next, then that last one by the window. He comes back to stand before John, bow held over the strings.

John looks at him as if he hasn’t failed. He opens his ribcage, and four centuries swirl into the room.

Sherlock plays every bit of John he knows, every shout, disappointment, laugh, nightmare through the walls. He uses the faltering notes from his grandmother’s music, every stop John makes, every twitch of his skin. Wall by wall Sherlock makes John a place inside the room. He plays until he slams to the floor, blood on his knees. Plays through blisters with his eyes open, tied to John until they are both cocooned.


Sherlock sat on the sofa staring up at the sky through the bay window. Rationally, he knew that Santa Claus was a myth, but he had to be sure. Empirical evidence is important too. He looked through the panes of glass, each one a slightly different angle and scene (bubbles in the antique glass warped everything) and waited to be proved wrong.


( 26 comments — Leave a comment )
Sep. 12th, 2011 07:37 am (UTC)
I don't quite know why but I'm crying. Just. Reading this was so beautiful and quiet and heartbreaking. I don't want John to go.
Sep. 12th, 2011 07:46 am (UTC)
Oh. Of course this was heartrending. You also wrote Webs and Glass, aka that one I couldn't comment on because that ending made me hurt. Dear author, you have a beautiful way with words.
Sep. 12th, 2011 03:12 pm (UTC)
I, thank you so much. I don't know what to say.
Sep. 12th, 2011 07:04 pm (UTC)
Hahah, you don't have to say anything! Just let me love on your amazing writing. ♥
Sep. 12th, 2011 10:32 am (UTC)
Oh God, my poor heart. I thought it was already broken beyond repair before but now... lord the tears I am in.

I just.... ugg.... weeping.

How do you do this? How do you write things this amazingly beautiful? How?!?!?!?!?!?!

I read anything you write and I think "oh lord, I should just give up now, because this is a whole amazing level I am never going to reach."
Sep. 12th, 2011 03:13 pm (UTC)
Oh please don't give up you have your own vision, and you cannot stop sharing it! Thank you hon:)

Edited at 2011-09-12 03:20 pm (UTC)
Sep. 13th, 2011 03:52 am (UTC)
oh sweetie, you know what I mean. It's just daunting to have such talented friends sometimes ♥ but seriously, this was too beautiful for words.
Sep. 13th, 2011 04:13 pm (UTC)
Well I am often daunted by the sheer talent in this fandom (including you, so you know;), so I understand--just not in relation to me..lol Thanks:)
Sep. 12th, 2011 12:17 pm (UTC)
Wow, this is really beautiful and very heartbreaking. Such an interesting concept and you've executed it very gracefully.
Sep. 12th, 2011 03:18 pm (UTC)
Oh thank you, I appreciate that. Honestly, I can never tell if anything I do will work out.
Sep. 12th, 2011 11:17 pm (UTC)
You break my heart. Over and over, you break it. When I read your fic Webs and Glass, I remember looking at your journal title and wondering at how appropriate it is. You make art with words, and it reminds me of my soul.

Thank you so much for sharing. Really. <3
Sep. 13th, 2011 12:40 am (UTC)
I never think of anything I do as art, but I am just completely thrown that you think so. I credit the amazing people in this fandom for inspiring me to keep going.

Thank you so much for commenting, I am so happy you enjoyed it:)
Sep. 14th, 2011 03:34 pm (UTC)
Brilliant and recced. ;-)
Sep. 14th, 2011 04:05 pm (UTC)
I noticed you did that last night. Thanks:)
Sep. 14th, 2011 06:13 pm (UTC)
Somehow I missed letting you know about it til this morning. Sorry about that, I was a bit out of sorts last night. :-P
Sep. 14th, 2011 06:16 pm (UTC)
Oh gods don't worry about it, yesterday was err..yes. I was too out of it to comment on your post anyway..lol Need more caffiene today *facepalm*

Sep. 14th, 2011 07:15 pm (UTC)
Lovely and so sad. What a brilliantly original idea. Thank you!
Sep. 15th, 2011 01:43 am (UTC)
Thank you so much for reading:)
Sep. 15th, 2011 01:29 am (UTC)
John looks at him as if he hasn’t failed. This is so beautiful.
Sep. 15th, 2011 01:44 am (UTC)
Thank you, I am thrilled you like it:)
Sep. 16th, 2011 09:50 am (UTC)
There were even more tears this time
Now that I've read the last section, all my earlier comments still stand, except now times them by 100. It reads like the music. It reads like the magic and clockwork inside John. It reads like Sherlock's beautiful mind.

This is just honestly an absolutely perfect piece of fiction. Gorgeous, brilliantly vivid, and simply heart-wrenching.

Edited at 2011-09-16 09:52 am (UTC)
Sep. 16th, 2011 03:10 pm (UTC)
Re: There were even more tears this time
So I probably shouldn't read comments when I get to work--luckily no one was here to see tears. I cannot tell you what it means to me to hear you say that my writing is like music. I did take music most of my life, but I don't compare the two--at least not consciously most of the time.

I have just finished reading the latest "Borderlands" fantasy anthology, and one of my favourite authors--Charles De Lint is in it. His work is quite literally magic, music, and brilliant (he is also an amazing musician). Whatever I do could never compare to that, but the fact that you think so is...ok I have officially run out of words. Just thank you so much!
Dec. 31st, 2011 05:31 am (UTC)
My heart ached after reading this. A truly beautiful story, thank you.
Dec. 31st, 2011 06:49 am (UTC)
Thank you for reading! I am touched that you thought so.
Sep. 9th, 2012 06:27 pm (UTC)
I cried so hard reading this!!

You have a gorgeous way of storytelling and such beautiful ideas that I just can't even fathom your brain.

Your characterization is marvelous and even though it's a fantasy AU, I feel like I can see everything happening just the way you wrote it. You write like you're letting the audience into your head, and we get to just see the ideas themselves playing out...or.. something. Does that make any sense?

I love this fic.

;__; <3
Sep. 9th, 2012 06:59 pm (UTC)
It has taken me a while to form words, as I just don't know how to respond. Thank you so much. I always hope readers will be able to see the world, but I can never tell. I am thrilled that you loved it!
( 26 comments — Leave a comment )