FIC REC: The Syntax of Things
Title: The Syntax of Things [Available on LJ or AO3 . Note, AO3 post is restricted; you must be logged in to view.]
Author: what_alchemy
Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes (past Sherlock/Sebastian)
Length: 19,231 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: transphobia
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: When John looked at him, Sherlock felt whole, felt like he was who he was meant to be. Not a freak, an oddity, or a monster in-between.
Reccer's comments:This is one of my favorite first-time & hurt/comfort fics. Sherlock is a transexual man who was deeply wounded as a child by his parent's treatment of him, as well as by a disastrous first relationship with Sebastian (from 'The Blind Banker'). He's learned not to trust, to take care of himself, first & foremost. But has he gone too far? By closing himself off emotionally, is he just hurting himself more? Perhaps With John, he has finally met someone he can rely on. And perhaps John is just the beginning.
“He’s wrong, you know,” John said, standing. He stepped into Sherlock’s personal space. “You shouldn’t… settle for someone who makes you feel bad, Sherlock. Someone who makes you feel like you have to be someone you don’t want to be just to please them. Besides, I like you far better when you’re not shamming as something you’re not.”
John meant the words as comfort - the trite lip service of a man used to assuring women with manufactured flaws that he liked them exactly as nature had crafted them - but they struck Sherlock low in his gut, in that messy set of organs he tried to forget he had. By some people’s measure of the words, Sherlock’s whole life was an elaborate sham job. Father had certainly thought so, had declared as much when he’d cast him from the family home and promptly died of a massive coronary. Mummy had never forgiven Sherlock, and Mycroft persisted in believing she would if Sherlock would just come home. Occasionally, Mycroft’s bend towards sentimentality was both gross and appalling. Sherlock’s damnable innards clenched.
“You should leave.” He kept his voice from cracking, and he was proud.
John’s furrowed brow was back, and he raised his hands, the universal sign for placation.
“Sherlock-”
“Get out, John.”
“Now hold on a tick, Sherlock, just let me- Hey!”
Sherlock seized him by the arms, shoved him none too gently from the room and closed the door behind him.
Pounding on the wood, shouts of his name.
John would go away eventually.
Author: what_alchemy
Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes (past Sherlock/Sebastian)
Length: 19,231 words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: transphobia
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: When John looked at him, Sherlock felt whole, felt like he was who he was meant to be. Not a freak, an oddity, or a monster in-between.
Reccer's comments:This is one of my favorite first-time & hurt/comfort fics. Sherlock is a transexual man who was deeply wounded as a child by his parent's treatment of him, as well as by a disastrous first relationship with Sebastian (from 'The Blind Banker'). He's learned not to trust, to take care of himself, first & foremost. But has he gone too far? By closing himself off emotionally, is he just hurting himself more? Perhaps With John, he has finally met someone he can rely on. And perhaps John is just the beginning.
“He’s wrong, you know,” John said, standing. He stepped into Sherlock’s personal space. “You shouldn’t… settle for someone who makes you feel bad, Sherlock. Someone who makes you feel like you have to be someone you don’t want to be just to please them. Besides, I like you far better when you’re not shamming as something you’re not.”
John meant the words as comfort - the trite lip service of a man used to assuring women with manufactured flaws that he liked them exactly as nature had crafted them - but they struck Sherlock low in his gut, in that messy set of organs he tried to forget he had. By some people’s measure of the words, Sherlock’s whole life was an elaborate sham job. Father had certainly thought so, had declared as much when he’d cast him from the family home and promptly died of a massive coronary. Mummy had never forgiven Sherlock, and Mycroft persisted in believing she would if Sherlock would just come home. Occasionally, Mycroft’s bend towards sentimentality was both gross and appalling. Sherlock’s damnable innards clenched.
“You should leave.” He kept his voice from cracking, and he was proud.
John’s furrowed brow was back, and he raised his hands, the universal sign for placation.
“Sherlock-”
“Get out, John.”
“Now hold on a tick, Sherlock, just let me- Hey!”
Sherlock seized him by the arms, shoved him none too gently from the room and closed the door behind him.
Pounding on the wood, shouts of his name.
John would go away eventually.