Fic Rec: Nine Inches, Yew
Title: Nine Inches, Yew
Author: ceywoozle
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Length: 56,730 words
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Mentions of past rape and torture
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: Sherlock is an animagus. John's not quite sure how he feels about cats.
Reccer's comments: This is a cross-over with Harry Potter, but that's not why you should read it. At it's heart, this is a story about two wounded men who build a new life together. It's an excellent piece of hurt/comfort that explores some of the horror inherent in Potter canon, and surprised me in ways that few can pull off.
Here's an excerpt shortly after John first meets Sherlock's alter-ego:
It's possible Sherlock hadn't thought this through.
He is standing in the divide between the sitting room and the kitchen watching John unpack the plastic shopping bags. He's been gone for ages, far long than would justify a quick jaunt to the shops for a sack of generic brand food, and Sherlock feels a slight dip in the pit of his stomach as he watches the contents unfurling from the bags on the table.
Two bowls emerge, painted ceramic with little fish bones swimming along the sides. After that, a crinkling bag of dry food in a brand that Sherlock doesn't recognise, and quickly following it, a variety of tins, different flavours and names. He spots the word mackerel on one and shudders.
He walks forward, inspecting the tins, looking at the bag of dry food. He sees the words local and holistic in the descriptors and he sees the price stickers on the tops of the tins and winces.
John is in the process of pulling a cylindrical scratching post with a bunch of feathers attached to a spring at the top from a larger bag, but he sees Sherlock's flinch out of the corner of his eye and he turns to him with a hard stare, daring him to speak.
“I don't know this brand,” Sherlock says carefully.
John's eyes narrow and he presses his lips in a tight line before answering. “Yeah, well, maybe you should do some research.”
He manages to wrestle the scratching post out of the bag and sets it on the table. Sherlock watches with something close to guilt as John starts on the next bag.
A succession of catnip filled cushions and a deep round bed that Sherlock almost wishes came in a larger size make their appearance. He imagines curling up in it and almost unconsciously he reaches out and fingers the fleece lining.
John presses it into his hand. “Go put this somewhere,” he says.
Sherlock looks at him. “Where?”
John gives him a glance laden with sarcastic bemusement. “He's your cat. Where does he like to lie?”
Sherlock stares at the bed in his hand for a moment. He feels like an idiot.
“Here, take this, too. Put it in the sitting room.” John pushes the scratching post towards him.
Sherlock continues to stare. This is possibly the strangest moment of his life.
“Er. John. There's something I should possibly...erm...probably tell you about...about the cat.”
The look John levels at him is filled with exasperation. “Please tell me you've at least named him. How long have you had him, anyway? Do you even know how to take care of one?”
Sherlock is offended. Of course he knows how to take care of a cat, far better than an ex-army doctor who is apparently looking to get cheated by every pet supply store in the city.
“I know exactly how to take care of a cat. And...and...Billy, yes, Billy does not require scratching posts and fleece beds and catnip. He's an animal, John.”
“Billy? You just made that up right now off the top of your head. And yes, I can see how well you know how to take care of a cat given that you didn't even have food for it. At least one of us is prepared.”
Sherlock scowls. “Prepared for what? The day the cat army rises to protest the sudden influx of mackerel? You are aware that the ancestor from which the domestic house cat is descended was a plains hunting animal and would never have been exposed to the correct environmental impetus that would have caused it to become a fisher.”
“Yes, thanks for that. Please put the bed somewhere.” He's not even looking at Sherlock anymore, opening yet another bag, this one from a bookstore and Sherlock watches as he starts emptying it. Two true crime novels, a Jack the Ripper conspiracy text, some sort of fantasy fiction, and lastly, an eight by eleven glossy book about cat care.
“Oh my God,” Sherlock says. He doesn't know what he's feeling. It could be amusement, it could be guilt. All he knows is that he simultaneously wants to laugh and tear his hair out and grab John by the shoulders and shake him but also tell him that he's kind of wonderful because Sherlock's fully aware of the state of the man's bank account and here he is emptying it in order to care for a cat that doesn't exist.
Enjoy!
Author: ceywoozle
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Length: 56,730 words
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Mentions of past rape and torture
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: Sherlock is an animagus. John's not quite sure how he feels about cats.
Reccer's comments: This is a cross-over with Harry Potter, but that's not why you should read it. At it's heart, this is a story about two wounded men who build a new life together. It's an excellent piece of hurt/comfort that explores some of the horror inherent in Potter canon, and surprised me in ways that few can pull off.
Here's an excerpt shortly after John first meets Sherlock's alter-ego:
It's possible Sherlock hadn't thought this through.
He is standing in the divide between the sitting room and the kitchen watching John unpack the plastic shopping bags. He's been gone for ages, far long than would justify a quick jaunt to the shops for a sack of generic brand food, and Sherlock feels a slight dip in the pit of his stomach as he watches the contents unfurling from the bags on the table.
Two bowls emerge, painted ceramic with little fish bones swimming along the sides. After that, a crinkling bag of dry food in a brand that Sherlock doesn't recognise, and quickly following it, a variety of tins, different flavours and names. He spots the word mackerel on one and shudders.
He walks forward, inspecting the tins, looking at the bag of dry food. He sees the words local and holistic in the descriptors and he sees the price stickers on the tops of the tins and winces.
John is in the process of pulling a cylindrical scratching post with a bunch of feathers attached to a spring at the top from a larger bag, but he sees Sherlock's flinch out of the corner of his eye and he turns to him with a hard stare, daring him to speak.
“I don't know this brand,” Sherlock says carefully.
John's eyes narrow and he presses his lips in a tight line before answering. “Yeah, well, maybe you should do some research.”
He manages to wrestle the scratching post out of the bag and sets it on the table. Sherlock watches with something close to guilt as John starts on the next bag.
A succession of catnip filled cushions and a deep round bed that Sherlock almost wishes came in a larger size make their appearance. He imagines curling up in it and almost unconsciously he reaches out and fingers the fleece lining.
John presses it into his hand. “Go put this somewhere,” he says.
Sherlock looks at him. “Where?”
John gives him a glance laden with sarcastic bemusement. “He's your cat. Where does he like to lie?”
Sherlock stares at the bed in his hand for a moment. He feels like an idiot.
“Here, take this, too. Put it in the sitting room.” John pushes the scratching post towards him.
Sherlock continues to stare. This is possibly the strangest moment of his life.
“Er. John. There's something I should possibly...erm...probably tell you about...about the cat.”
The look John levels at him is filled with exasperation. “Please tell me you've at least named him. How long have you had him, anyway? Do you even know how to take care of one?”
Sherlock is offended. Of course he knows how to take care of a cat, far better than an ex-army doctor who is apparently looking to get cheated by every pet supply store in the city.
“I know exactly how to take care of a cat. And...and...Billy, yes, Billy does not require scratching posts and fleece beds and catnip. He's an animal, John.”
“Billy? You just made that up right now off the top of your head. And yes, I can see how well you know how to take care of a cat given that you didn't even have food for it. At least one of us is prepared.”
Sherlock scowls. “Prepared for what? The day the cat army rises to protest the sudden influx of mackerel? You are aware that the ancestor from which the domestic house cat is descended was a plains hunting animal and would never have been exposed to the correct environmental impetus that would have caused it to become a fisher.”
“Yes, thanks for that. Please put the bed somewhere.” He's not even looking at Sherlock anymore, opening yet another bag, this one from a bookstore and Sherlock watches as he starts emptying it. Two true crime novels, a Jack the Ripper conspiracy text, some sort of fantasy fiction, and lastly, an eight by eleven glossy book about cat care.
“Oh my God,” Sherlock says. He doesn't know what he's feeling. It could be amusement, it could be guilt. All he knows is that he simultaneously wants to laugh and tear his hair out and grab John by the shoulders and shake him but also tell him that he's kind of wonderful because Sherlock's fully aware of the state of the man's bank account and here he is emptying it in order to care for a cat that doesn't exist.
Enjoy!