Many Clapped. Some Didn't. A Few Beasts Hissed.
as per usual, this is inspired by the brilliant anon who is writing The Theory Of Narrative Causality over at the sherlockbbc_fic journal. Go read that, right now.
The first time Sherlock reads one of jumperfucker's fics, he almost smashes his laptop.
It was only the desire to read the fic again, to make sure, that halted his arms midair, bringing the cowering Vaio back down to balance atop his crooked knees once more. His eyes scan the page at lightening speed, still taking in every word of the 10k story within minutes, not missing a single detail. It was perfect. A little over-descriptive, of course, and with a tendency to lean towards romanticising details that should've been somewhat insignificant, but character-wise, plot-wise, relationship-wise, it was perfection.
And Sherlock doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to handle this. He never imagined he'd find anybody who understood like he did, who could breathe life so successfully into the characters he held in such high esteem, even through the cold, hard glare of a computer screen. He'd never prepared for this situation because he'd never envisioned it happening, he'd never taken into consideration that jumperfucker, as a writer and a person, could actually exist somewhere out there. And so, Sherlock does not know what to do. It confuses him and makes him feel ignorant, which in turn makes him want to destroy the blasted piece of technology with renewed anger. So he does.
And this is how Mycroft knows
.
--
"What is it?"
"It's a piece of paper, Sherlock, do try and keep up."
Mycroft is never more aware of how the phrase 'if looks could kill' might have been coined than when he is around his brother. The shattered remains of what had been a loaned laptop are scattered about the floor in front of Sherlock, who balances on top of the back of his chair, feet sunk firmly into the plush cushions that Mycroft's home is rich in. He's been living with his brother for almost a month now, while he 'reconsiders his priorities' - Mycroft's words, not his.
"You know exactly what it is." Mycroft eventually answers Sherlock's real question. "Don't let it be said I never did anything for you, Sherlock."
"I don't need it." Sherlock mutters, pointedly looking away from the paper, and from his brother. "I'll find him myself."
There is a long silence, in which the Holmes brothers have a seemingly telepathic conversation which no one but they are ever privy to, and finally Mycroft seems satisfied, tucking the folded paper away in his pocket.
"Well, the information is always here, if you need it. Working for the Government has its advantages, Sherlock."
"Go away, Mycroft."
--
What follows is a month of Sherlock, for lack of a better word, stalking John. He reads, and re-reads and re-re-reads through every single post jumperfucker has ever made, right back to the first unsure post entitled "Nothing ever happens to me". He takes notes, draws up a timeline of John's history on LJ and his history IRL, based on little snippets of information dotted about John's journal. He traces every thread John has replied to, every time the username 'jumperfucker' is mentioned, Sherlock is there, analysing and deducing. By the end of all of this, he feels as though he's built up a quite accurate picture of who John just might be, and he cannot believe his ridiculous luck.
He goes on to repeat this experiment four or five times, trying to fault his findings because he refuses to acknowledge that some of the events in his life come down to fate. It must be a trick, some sort of delusion brought on by the last of the withdrawal symptoms, or perhaps his calculating mind, tired of having to deal with idiots, has decided to turn on him instead, finding him much better sport. In any case, it just cannot be real. However, as Sherlock knew all too well, once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth and, in the heart he so often claimed he was missing, he had known the truth from the moment he had smashed the laptop. It had just been far too much for him to take in at that time and process correctly. After all, up until that moment, he hadn't believed in Watsons.
The first time Sherlock reads one of jumperfucker's fics, he almost smashes his laptop.
It was only the desire to read the fic again, to make sure, that halted his arms midair, bringing the cowering Vaio back down to balance atop his crooked knees once more. His eyes scan the page at lightening speed, still taking in every word of the 10k story within minutes, not missing a single detail. It was perfect. A little over-descriptive, of course, and with a tendency to lean towards romanticising details that should've been somewhat insignificant, but character-wise, plot-wise, relationship-wise, it was perfection.
And Sherlock doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to handle this. He never imagined he'd find anybody who understood like he did, who could breathe life so successfully into the characters he held in such high esteem, even through the cold, hard glare of a computer screen. He'd never prepared for this situation because he'd never envisioned it happening, he'd never taken into consideration that jumperfucker, as a writer and a person, could actually exist somewhere out there. And so, Sherlock does not know what to do. It confuses him and makes him feel ignorant, which in turn makes him want to destroy the blasted piece of technology with renewed anger. So he does.
And this is how Mycroft knows
.
--
"What is it?"
"It's a piece of paper, Sherlock, do try and keep up."
Mycroft is never more aware of how the phrase 'if looks could kill' might have been coined than when he is around his brother. The shattered remains of what had been a loaned laptop are scattered about the floor in front of Sherlock, who balances on top of the back of his chair, feet sunk firmly into the plush cushions that Mycroft's home is rich in. He's been living with his brother for almost a month now, while he 'reconsiders his priorities' - Mycroft's words, not his.
"You know exactly what it is." Mycroft eventually answers Sherlock's real question. "Don't let it be said I never did anything for you, Sherlock."
"I don't need it." Sherlock mutters, pointedly looking away from the paper, and from his brother. "I'll find him myself."
There is a long silence, in which the Holmes brothers have a seemingly telepathic conversation which no one but they are ever privy to, and finally Mycroft seems satisfied, tucking the folded paper away in his pocket.
"Well, the information is always here, if you need it. Working for the Government has its advantages, Sherlock."
"Go away, Mycroft."
--
What follows is a month of Sherlock, for lack of a better word, stalking John. He reads, and re-reads and re-re-reads through every single post jumperfucker has ever made, right back to the first unsure post entitled "Nothing ever happens to me". He takes notes, draws up a timeline of John's history on LJ and his history IRL, based on little snippets of information dotted about John's journal. He traces every thread John has replied to, every time the username 'jumperfucker' is mentioned, Sherlock is there, analysing and deducing. By the end of all of this, he feels as though he's built up a quite accurate picture of who John just might be, and he cannot believe his ridiculous luck.
He goes on to repeat this experiment four or five times, trying to fault his findings because he refuses to acknowledge that some of the events in his life come down to fate. It must be a trick, some sort of delusion brought on by the last of the withdrawal symptoms, or perhaps his calculating mind, tired of having to deal with idiots, has decided to turn on him instead, finding him much better sport. In any case, it just cannot be real. However, as Sherlock knew all too well, once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth and, in the heart he so often claimed he was missing, he had known the truth from the moment he had smashed the laptop. It had just been far too much for him to take in at that time and process correctly. After all, up until that moment, he hadn't believed in Watsons.