Fanfic Rec | (so maybe we're a bliss of another kind) by paperclipbitch
Title: (so maybe we're a bliss of another kind)
Author: paperclipbitch
Pairing: Gen
Length: 12975
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Verse: BBC
Author's summary: “You don’t write love songs,” John says. “You write about other things and people misinterpret them because in the right lighting they look like love songs. But they’re not.”
Reccer's comments: This isn’t at all the cracky fic one might expect from a Band!AU. In fact, it’s an intriguing, poignant, lyrical (no pun intended) piece. The characters in this fic are still very much them, even when placed in an alternative universe which has very little to do with canon - and that is one of the best things about AUs, seeing how characters can be still so recognizable in such unusual settings. The dynamics and relationships in the fic mirror those in the show - Sherlock is the genius songwriter, Mycroft the concerned brother, John the reliable friend, Irene Sherlock’s witty muse, Jim the stalkerish fan that made it into the band and became the frontman and singer, the member the rest of the band hates but that Sherlock, despite himself, can't help being extremely fascinated by.
A very interesting read.
[Here’s an excerpt]Years ago, before all of this, Jim stalked Sherlock’s myspace page. Messages every five minutes. Some cryptic, some flattering, some based on the replies of teenage girls without spelling or grammar or adequate control of the shift key to their names. He was dedicated and brutal and when Sherlock finally agreed to listen to a recording of his voice it was perfect. Raw and vicious and sleek and badly-contained; Jim sang in a way that showed Sherlock he understood, understood like no one else ever would.
He knew then that someone who could comprehend what the inside of his head felt like wasn’t someone he should invite into his life. He ignored that knowledge, put it into a box and locked it, and he’ll probably pay for it forever.
“I was going to send roses,” Jim tells him carelessly, “but I thought that was impersonal. And you’d probably only get high and try to eat them.”
Sherlock takes the cigarette from his hand and tucks it between his lips, considering.
“I missed you,” Jim adds. His voice is light, a knife stroking over bare thin skin before the plunge. “Days without you are boring.”
“I understand that’s what the Times crossword was created for,” Sherlock replies. He supposes he should be grateful he hasn’t woken up to find Jim in the kitchen making coffee, barefoot and humming. Lestrade is of the opinion that Jim’s going to murder him one day and then taxidermy his corpse for cuddling, but he only brings it up in the crowded jumble of tourbus nights, nicotine withdrawal and days without sleep. Jim is a bloody good singer, after all.
“Don’t be pedestrian, sweetheart,” Jim replies. He pushes his sunglasses up, his eyes dark and jagged. He appears more focused than anyone else, which is what makes him such an arresting frontman. Sherlock isn’t interested in people; Jim isn’t interested in anything but.
Sherlock doesn’t want him in his flat, where Irene is still laughing over yesterday’s client in a jumper belonging to John, where Mrs Hudson is resignedly cleaning out the fridge and bemoaning the lack of vitamins in his diet.
“What do you want?” he asks, flat, and Jim looks at him with reproach, as though Sherlock should have figured this out.
He has figured it out. That isn’t the point.
Jim bares his teeth in his latest smile, as he says: “I want you to write a song about me.”
Author: paperclipbitch
Pairing: Gen
Length: 12975
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Verse: BBC
Author's summary: “You don’t write love songs,” John says. “You write about other things and people misinterpret them because in the right lighting they look like love songs. But they’re not.”
Reccer's comments: This isn’t at all the cracky fic one might expect from a Band!AU. In fact, it’s an intriguing, poignant, lyrical (no pun intended) piece. The characters in this fic are still very much them, even when placed in an alternative universe which has very little to do with canon - and that is one of the best things about AUs, seeing how characters can be still so recognizable in such unusual settings. The dynamics and relationships in the fic mirror those in the show - Sherlock is the genius songwriter, Mycroft the concerned brother, John the reliable friend, Irene Sherlock’s witty muse, Jim the stalkerish fan that made it into the band and became the frontman and singer, the member the rest of the band hates but that Sherlock, despite himself, can't help being extremely fascinated by.
A very interesting read.
[Here’s an excerpt]Years ago, before all of this, Jim stalked Sherlock’s myspace page. Messages every five minutes. Some cryptic, some flattering, some based on the replies of teenage girls without spelling or grammar or adequate control of the shift key to their names. He was dedicated and brutal and when Sherlock finally agreed to listen to a recording of his voice it was perfect. Raw and vicious and sleek and badly-contained; Jim sang in a way that showed Sherlock he understood, understood like no one else ever would.
He knew then that someone who could comprehend what the inside of his head felt like wasn’t someone he should invite into his life. He ignored that knowledge, put it into a box and locked it, and he’ll probably pay for it forever.
“I was going to send roses,” Jim tells him carelessly, “but I thought that was impersonal. And you’d probably only get high and try to eat them.”
Sherlock takes the cigarette from his hand and tucks it between his lips, considering.
“I missed you,” Jim adds. His voice is light, a knife stroking over bare thin skin before the plunge. “Days without you are boring.”
“I understand that’s what the Times crossword was created for,” Sherlock replies. He supposes he should be grateful he hasn’t woken up to find Jim in the kitchen making coffee, barefoot and humming. Lestrade is of the opinion that Jim’s going to murder him one day and then taxidermy his corpse for cuddling, but he only brings it up in the crowded jumble of tourbus nights, nicotine withdrawal and days without sleep. Jim is a bloody good singer, after all.
“Don’t be pedestrian, sweetheart,” Jim replies. He pushes his sunglasses up, his eyes dark and jagged. He appears more focused than anyone else, which is what makes him such an arresting frontman. Sherlock isn’t interested in people; Jim isn’t interested in anything but.
Sherlock doesn’t want him in his flat, where Irene is still laughing over yesterday’s client in a jumper belonging to John, where Mrs Hudson is resignedly cleaning out the fridge and bemoaning the lack of vitamins in his diet.
“What do you want?” he asks, flat, and Jim looks at him with reproach, as though Sherlock should have figured this out.
He has figured it out. That isn’t the point.
Jim bares his teeth in his latest smile, as he says: “I want you to write a song about me.”