(no subject)
So, I've been diving in to Sherlock Holmes fic - experiencing rapture of the deep, really. Most of the stories I've read so far are incredible - I must have found a picky rec-page, because this level of quality is surely unusual.
Then today, my iPod plays "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen for me and I start semi-consciously filking it for H/W.... hilarious! "Sincerely, M. Morstan," indeed!
Okay, okay... I can't help myself. Here goes:
It's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now though you won't get the letter
London is cold, but we like where we're living
There's music on Baker Street all through the evening
I hear that you've finished your work deep in Switzerland
You've died for nothing now and he's kept all the records
And John came in with a lock of your hair
He said that you gave it to him
That night that you planned to go clear
But you never went clear
Ah, the last time he saw you you looked so much older
Your famous wool cape coat was torn at the shoulder
He's been to the station to meet every train
And he came home having gone there in vain
You treated my husband to a flake of your life
and when he came home, I was nobody's wife
Well I've seen you there with a pipe in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
And now John's far away - you've all his regard
And what can I tell you, his brother, my killer?
What can i possibly say?
You know I don't miss you, will never forgive you
I'm glad that you have gone away
If you ever come by here, for John, on your knees
While your enemy's sleeping, and her man is free...
No thanks for the trouble you put in his eyes
I know that it's there for good, while I'm by his side
And John came in with a lock of your hair
He said that you gave it to him
The night that you planned to go clear
Sincerely,
M. Morstan
Then today, my iPod plays "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen for me and I start semi-consciously filking it for H/W.... hilarious! "Sincerely, M. Morstan," indeed!
Okay, okay... I can't help myself. Here goes:
It's four in the morning, the end of December
I'm writing you now though you won't get the letter
London is cold, but we like where we're living
There's music on Baker Street all through the evening
I hear that you've finished your work deep in Switzerland
You've died for nothing now and he's kept all the records
And John came in with a lock of your hair
He said that you gave it to him
That night that you planned to go clear
But you never went clear
Ah, the last time he saw you you looked so much older
Your famous wool cape coat was torn at the shoulder
He's been to the station to meet every train
And he came home having gone there in vain
You treated my husband to a flake of your life
and when he came home, I was nobody's wife
Well I've seen you there with a pipe in your teeth
One more thin gypsy thief
And now John's far away - you've all his regard
And what can I tell you, his brother, my killer?
What can i possibly say?
You know I don't miss you, will never forgive you
I'm glad that you have gone away
If you ever come by here, for John, on your knees
While your enemy's sleeping, and her man is free...
No thanks for the trouble you put in his eyes
I know that it's there for good, while I'm by his side
And John came in with a lock of your hair
He said that you gave it to him
The night that you planned to go clear
Sincerely,
M. Morstan