Sherlock Fanfiction: Correspondence
Title: Correspondence
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG-ish (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~1600 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Correspondence follows Frail Blue.
Excerpt: "I hunt for novae to name after you." (from the private correspondence of A. A. Holmes)
Correspondence
“’My dearest and most esteemed Avicenna.’” John's glance fell to the bottom of the sheet of thick stationery in his hand. “It’s signed ‘Aristotle’. Fusion clearly hadn’t damaged their self-esteem.”
Sherlock lay propped against the pillows, his eyes closed. “Why would you have expected it to?”
“Something stranger than adolescence happening to them, altering their fragile view of themselves,” John said.
“Enhancing it, perhaps,” Sherlock replied. “Too soon to draw conclusions.”
John drew a deep breath and continued reading. “’I hope this finds you better than I. Believe me when I say that I have followed your suggestions and busied myself even more assiduously with my books, my writing, my observations, buried myself in them more like, but nothing eclipses your presence in my mind. Your voice whispers to me between the lines and your eyes regard me from the stars. I hunt for novae to name after you. Instead of sleeping, I re-read your letters and see the angle of your head as you bend closer to the page, the tilt of your wrist, the grasp of your fingers upon the pen. How I envy it, and the desk and the chair. They should not have what I do not ~ insensate things.
‘When I should be revising my papers, I write poetry. My pen scratches franticly against the paper; it races to record the words pouring from me. Poor words they are, stumbling after the images, chasing after the sounds, the scents, the textures teaming in my memory. I expect the ink in its pot to evaporate. If you don’t come sooner than August, I will start sending them to you. In fact, if you don’t join us here before August I shall find some fool publisher to print and distribute them. You know I have connections; I could get it done.
‘So now you have a hint of how it is with me. Write by return and tell me you’ve booked earlier passage. I won’t even complain of little demons and having to be more formal at dinner, just come back to me soon.
‘Yours forever...’”
“Good threat,” Sherlock said.
John turned the letter over and set it carefully atop the stack on the nightstand, took another sheet from the box on the bed. His eyes scanned down the page. “You could read these much more quickly yourself,” John said.
“You feel self-conscious reading them aloud,” Sherlock stated. “It’s more efficient this way. We both hear them at the same time and, we’ve agreed, your sensitivity to the material will probably be helpful in tracing what we hope to find. Keep reading.”
“’O beautiful one’,” John read and stopped. He glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, but he moved one hand from beneath his chin and waved John on. Beautiful one. “’You misunderstood. You are not supposed to stop thinking of me. I expect your thoughts to be with me as you go about your day and for them to be filled with me when you dream at night. Surely, this is why I never feel alone. It is not like it was before we analysed our situation, deduced the next step and took it. Then, our time apart was much harder to bear and nothing but the concrete evidence of you before my eyes could ease my loneliness. Now, knowing your feelings are constant, no matter the distance, I set about my duties at ease. Indeed, so close is this sense of you, that I feel as though you answer the questions I pose myself over difficult problems, as you do when we discuss such things in person. I completed the final draft of an extraordinary paper the other day and I almost hesitate to write that I am eager for you to read it, so strong is the feeling that you already know. You are present, always, for me.
‘You need not contact any publishers. I begin to wonder how far your “connections” extend because the departure date for St. Petersburg has been moved up, and I will be all the sooner in England because of it. They will stop over a couple days before continuing to Scotland to deliver our little angel to her family en route to port. Observe her well. We will need to discuss.
‘Since you will not publish, I expect recitations when I arrive. Practice the inflections, the gestures, until I am there to hear every sound, see every motion, for myself.
‘Always,
‘Avicenna.’ Um,” John added. He set the paper down. “I didn’t expect this to be quite so personal.”
“What did you expect from personal correspondence, John?” Sherlock asked. “Exchanges about the weather?”
“Some people do mention the weather in their letters,” John replied.
“Come now. It was you that declared the notes in the library were about love, John. Here is the evidence that you were right.”
“Yes, well.”
“It created a problem though. Still does,” Sherlock mused.
“Yeah, having tea with them in a few hours,” John said. Sherlock huffed. “No, of course, that wouldn’t bother you. You were reading my e-mails to my girlfriends.” Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t say a word about my poetry,” John warned. “And Mycroft read my therapist’s notes and there’s the CCTV and the bugs…OK. I get it. I’m going to be the only one uncomfortable about this, so I should just get over it, right?” Sherlock turned his head, opened his eyes and smiled. “So if social awkwardness isn’t the problem, what is?”
“It would appear that something else happened the same night they had been watching the asteroid shower,” Sherlock said.
John tilted his head and then his eyebrows went up. “Their observations. They thought they were the result of the change in their relationship.”
Sherlock nodded. “It’s why they’ve shared these with us. Reading back through them, Antoine realised he still wasn’t going to be able to untangle them.”
“Are we?” John asked.
“We’ll have a better chance,” Sherlock said. “Look at the observations in that last letter.”
“The answers to Bertrand’s difficult problems seeming to come from someone else. He assumed it was him imagining what Arthur would say because they brainstormed together about their studies and Arthur was brilliant.” Sherlock smiled again. “Oh, stop it,” John said. Sherlock’s smile grew a little brighter. “Fine, brilliance runs in the Holmes family.”
“Both families,” Sherlock corrected.
John opened his mouth to offer some retort and stopped. Concentric curves embellished the surface of Sherlock’s face, accentuated the glint of amusement in his eyes. O beautiful one. John reached out and followed the arc of a cheekbone into the long, loose curls over one ear. John kept his eyes on the smiling eyes as he drew his hand back. Beautiful one. “All right, then. Who’s their little angel?”
“My mother’s name is Seraphine,” Sherlock said.
“Wait,” John said, his eyes moving from left to right. “Your mother is Bertrand’s young cousin?” John asked.
“What have you three been talking about while I’ve been gone, if you haven’t covered that basic bit of information?” Sherlock probed.
“I…” John began. “We…”
“They distracted you with stargazing, didn’t they?”
John looked down at his hands. “A bit,” he conceded. “The sky, Sherlock, has been incredible.”
Sherlock’s eyes tracked the changes in John’s expression. “It is extraordinary here, yes.”
“And I’ve run all sorts of tests on tissue and blood samples,” John countered. “I haven’t had a chance to show you those. Bertrand and I worked a lot on them, discussed them with Arthur. Their pattern of fusion doesn’t appear to be the same as ours. The immune response seems different, too. Of course, after all this time…”
“…and with haematology,” Sherlock smiled again. “They wanted me to tell you this.”
“They spoke about their youth. They…they experimented a fair amount.” Sherlock looked nonplussed. “With others…outside the laboratory," John said, raising his eyebrows again.
“Ah.”
“I doubt Mrs Hudson’s hoovering would have left a hair of Irene’s around the flat to test, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a grandparent or great-grandparent of Irene’s didn’t belong to either Bertrand or Arthur, if even half of what they told me is true.”
“You suspect the exaggeration of the locker room, as it were?” Sherlock asked.
John was inspecting his hands again. “They seemed to enjoy reminiscing, seemed comfortable speaking of such things in front of one another. And some of the adventures with others were embarked upon together.” John’s voice dropped. “Another type of distraction?”
“A bit of avoidance perhaps,” Sherlock said. “It makes you sad now. In light of what you’ve just read.”
John sighed. “I suppose. Or a fool for believing a lot of nonsense.”
“I don’t think they would do that to you, John. Antoine respects you.” John didn’t look up. “He thinks you deserve me. He’s never thought that about anyone before.”
John glanced up and back down again. “But…then…”
“Think of all the decades. How young they were when this happened to them.”
“Mm.”
“They aren’t us, John.”
John raised his head, met Sherlock’s gaze. “There’s only one experiment I want to be involved in now,” he said.
“Are you endorsing my experimenting on you?” Sherlock asked. His words contained a hint of levity, but his eyes did not.
“You’ll do it anyway. You always do,” John said. He took a breath. “What I’m saying is I don’t want to experiment with others anymore. You might be right about their age. I’ve already had my decades to experiment and I don’t want that anymore.”
“I don’t doubt you. Don’t doubt yourself, John.” Sherlock patted the box of letters. “Shall I read the next one to you?”
John closed his eyes a moment before nodding for Sherlock to begin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Icarus Clipped, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG-ish (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~1600 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Correspondence follows Frail Blue.
Excerpt: "I hunt for novae to name after you." (from the private correspondence of A. A. Holmes)
Correspondence
“’My dearest and most esteemed Avicenna.’” John's glance fell to the bottom of the sheet of thick stationery in his hand. “It’s signed ‘Aristotle’. Fusion clearly hadn’t damaged their self-esteem.”
Sherlock lay propped against the pillows, his eyes closed. “Why would you have expected it to?”
“Something stranger than adolescence happening to them, altering their fragile view of themselves,” John said.
“Enhancing it, perhaps,” Sherlock replied. “Too soon to draw conclusions.”
John drew a deep breath and continued reading. “’I hope this finds you better than I. Believe me when I say that I have followed your suggestions and busied myself even more assiduously with my books, my writing, my observations, buried myself in them more like, but nothing eclipses your presence in my mind. Your voice whispers to me between the lines and your eyes regard me from the stars. I hunt for novae to name after you. Instead of sleeping, I re-read your letters and see the angle of your head as you bend closer to the page, the tilt of your wrist, the grasp of your fingers upon the pen. How I envy it, and the desk and the chair. They should not have what I do not ~ insensate things.
‘When I should be revising my papers, I write poetry. My pen scratches franticly against the paper; it races to record the words pouring from me. Poor words they are, stumbling after the images, chasing after the sounds, the scents, the textures teaming in my memory. I expect the ink in its pot to evaporate. If you don’t come sooner than August, I will start sending them to you. In fact, if you don’t join us here before August I shall find some fool publisher to print and distribute them. You know I have connections; I could get it done.
‘So now you have a hint of how it is with me. Write by return and tell me you’ve booked earlier passage. I won’t even complain of little demons and having to be more formal at dinner, just come back to me soon.
‘Yours forever...’”
“Good threat,” Sherlock said.
John turned the letter over and set it carefully atop the stack on the nightstand, took another sheet from the box on the bed. His eyes scanned down the page. “You could read these much more quickly yourself,” John said.
“You feel self-conscious reading them aloud,” Sherlock stated. “It’s more efficient this way. We both hear them at the same time and, we’ve agreed, your sensitivity to the material will probably be helpful in tracing what we hope to find. Keep reading.”
“’O beautiful one’,” John read and stopped. He glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, but he moved one hand from beneath his chin and waved John on. Beautiful one. “’You misunderstood. You are not supposed to stop thinking of me. I expect your thoughts to be with me as you go about your day and for them to be filled with me when you dream at night. Surely, this is why I never feel alone. It is not like it was before we analysed our situation, deduced the next step and took it. Then, our time apart was much harder to bear and nothing but the concrete evidence of you before my eyes could ease my loneliness. Now, knowing your feelings are constant, no matter the distance, I set about my duties at ease. Indeed, so close is this sense of you, that I feel as though you answer the questions I pose myself over difficult problems, as you do when we discuss such things in person. I completed the final draft of an extraordinary paper the other day and I almost hesitate to write that I am eager for you to read it, so strong is the feeling that you already know. You are present, always, for me.
‘You need not contact any publishers. I begin to wonder how far your “connections” extend because the departure date for St. Petersburg has been moved up, and I will be all the sooner in England because of it. They will stop over a couple days before continuing to Scotland to deliver our little angel to her family en route to port. Observe her well. We will need to discuss.
‘Since you will not publish, I expect recitations when I arrive. Practice the inflections, the gestures, until I am there to hear every sound, see every motion, for myself.
‘Always,
‘Avicenna.’ Um,” John added. He set the paper down. “I didn’t expect this to be quite so personal.”
“What did you expect from personal correspondence, John?” Sherlock asked. “Exchanges about the weather?”
“Some people do mention the weather in their letters,” John replied.
“Come now. It was you that declared the notes in the library were about love, John. Here is the evidence that you were right.”
“Yes, well.”
“It created a problem though. Still does,” Sherlock mused.
“Yeah, having tea with them in a few hours,” John said. Sherlock huffed. “No, of course, that wouldn’t bother you. You were reading my e-mails to my girlfriends.” Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t say a word about my poetry,” John warned. “And Mycroft read my therapist’s notes and there’s the CCTV and the bugs…OK. I get it. I’m going to be the only one uncomfortable about this, so I should just get over it, right?” Sherlock turned his head, opened his eyes and smiled. “So if social awkwardness isn’t the problem, what is?”
“It would appear that something else happened the same night they had been watching the asteroid shower,” Sherlock said.
John tilted his head and then his eyebrows went up. “Their observations. They thought they were the result of the change in their relationship.”
Sherlock nodded. “It’s why they’ve shared these with us. Reading back through them, Antoine realised he still wasn’t going to be able to untangle them.”
“Are we?” John asked.
“We’ll have a better chance,” Sherlock said. “Look at the observations in that last letter.”
“The answers to Bertrand’s difficult problems seeming to come from someone else. He assumed it was him imagining what Arthur would say because they brainstormed together about their studies and Arthur was brilliant.” Sherlock smiled again. “Oh, stop it,” John said. Sherlock’s smile grew a little brighter. “Fine, brilliance runs in the Holmes family.”
“Both families,” Sherlock corrected.
John opened his mouth to offer some retort and stopped. Concentric curves embellished the surface of Sherlock’s face, accentuated the glint of amusement in his eyes. O beautiful one. John reached out and followed the arc of a cheekbone into the long, loose curls over one ear. John kept his eyes on the smiling eyes as he drew his hand back. Beautiful one. “All right, then. Who’s their little angel?”
“My mother’s name is Seraphine,” Sherlock said.
“Wait,” John said, his eyes moving from left to right. “Your mother is Bertrand’s young cousin?” John asked.
“What have you three been talking about while I’ve been gone, if you haven’t covered that basic bit of information?” Sherlock probed.
“I…” John began. “We…”
“They distracted you with stargazing, didn’t they?”
John looked down at his hands. “A bit,” he conceded. “The sky, Sherlock, has been incredible.”
Sherlock’s eyes tracked the changes in John’s expression. “It is extraordinary here, yes.”
“And I’ve run all sorts of tests on tissue and blood samples,” John countered. “I haven’t had a chance to show you those. Bertrand and I worked a lot on them, discussed them with Arthur. Their pattern of fusion doesn’t appear to be the same as ours. The immune response seems different, too. Of course, after all this time…”
“…and with haematology,” Sherlock smiled again. “They wanted me to tell you this.”
“They spoke about their youth. They…they experimented a fair amount.” Sherlock looked nonplussed. “With others…outside the laboratory," John said, raising his eyebrows again.
“Ah.”
“I doubt Mrs Hudson’s hoovering would have left a hair of Irene’s around the flat to test, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a grandparent or great-grandparent of Irene’s didn’t belong to either Bertrand or Arthur, if even half of what they told me is true.”
“You suspect the exaggeration of the locker room, as it were?” Sherlock asked.
John was inspecting his hands again. “They seemed to enjoy reminiscing, seemed comfortable speaking of such things in front of one another. And some of the adventures with others were embarked upon together.” John’s voice dropped. “Another type of distraction?”
“A bit of avoidance perhaps,” Sherlock said. “It makes you sad now. In light of what you’ve just read.”
John sighed. “I suppose. Or a fool for believing a lot of nonsense.”
“I don’t think they would do that to you, John. Antoine respects you.” John didn’t look up. “He thinks you deserve me. He’s never thought that about anyone before.”
John glanced up and back down again. “But…then…”
“Think of all the decades. How young they were when this happened to them.”
“Mm.”
“They aren’t us, John.”
John raised his head, met Sherlock’s gaze. “There’s only one experiment I want to be involved in now,” he said.
“Are you endorsing my experimenting on you?” Sherlock asked. His words contained a hint of levity, but his eyes did not.
“You’ll do it anyway. You always do,” John said. He took a breath. “What I’m saying is I don’t want to experiment with others anymore. You might be right about their age. I’ve already had my decades to experiment and I don’t want that anymore.”
“I don’t doubt you. Don’t doubt yourself, John.” Sherlock patted the box of letters. “Shall I read the next one to you?”
John closed his eyes a moment before nodding for Sherlock to begin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Icarus Clipped, may be read here.