The kids are off to school, the spouse is off to work, it's raining, and I have a pot of coffee. This is the perfect fic-reading moment. Fortunately, I have the perfect fic, which I'd like to recommend to everyone:
The Death and Resurrection of the English Language, by
wordstrings--a BBC Sherlock fic. It's Sherlock/John, NC-17.
I have read some really good
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Comments 8
All right, Gabriel García Márquez tops it, maybe, but only just.
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I am home today, all Nyquiled up, if you wanna commiserate or anything.
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I don't think there's any more violence than on most prime-time TV shows nowadays.
There's blood-licking (once, for a wound, not as a pattern, although blood itself is sort of an obsession), which is sort of icky for me, but on the other hand when I've gotten hurt I've licked plenty of my own blood (is that TMI? Sorry!). In context it is rather weird, but then the whole point of it is showing that it's rather weird.
I would have to say that the thing that would trigger me the most is the way that Sherlock is really not okay, inside his head. There's no labels, no attempt to psychoanalyze him, but being so far inside his POV, his thoughts, is a little disorienting for me. What saves it is him knowing that some things aren't good, him making lists even, to keep track, and asking John when he's not sure, because he's trying so ( ... )
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Ha! I've lost track of how many times I've thought something was okay, only to find somebody on my flist frantically back-buttoning out. And a few times that everyone loved something, and it sent me hiding under the rainbow blankie. I hope you enjoy it more rather than less.
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