I've read a bunch of Sherlock/John porn (not that there's ANYTHING wrong with THAT) but I kept looking for some fic with a bit more oomph behind it. Some layers, some style, some ... SOMETHING that would set it apart from the rank and file PWP.
And Lo I found a couple fics lately that have really stood out to me, and so I thought I'd boost the signal on them a bit.
The Death and Resurrection of the English LanguageRating: NC-17
Sherlock here is borderline certifiable. But I rather like that he's dark and twisted and possessive and messed up. It's a deep dark ride, but well worth it.
"What have you done?" ...
John won't look up from his tea and paper when he repeats this question, and that is...that is just so bloody
beautiful. Blinking, Sherlock finds that he can only smile. He has just been outplayed. Expertly outplayed, and it feels
wonderful, it really might as well be Christmas, except that Christmas comes once a year and outplaying Sherlock comes perhaps once every three to four years after Mycroft is discounted, the smug bastard
. Sherlock feels like laughing, feels it creeping up from his ribs to his lips. So very few people ever
dare to challenge him, possibly fearing that he might tie them up for days and have his way with them. With John, that danger is obviously...rendered a moot point. Sherlock can tie John up and have his way with him for days anytime he wants, he's beginning to quietly, rapturously, tremblingly suspect, and so outplaying the detective is not risky. It's
fun."
and then for a bit of a change of pace, a fic that explores the backstory of Mycroft and Sherlock.
Sonata FormRating: PG-13
This is the sort of fic I always wish my writing felt like ... spare and poetical and lovely. Full disclosure, I haven't actually read this one, but I listened to the podfic of it in bed last night, and it is now lodged surely in my own 'head canon.' The Holmes boys are awkward and prickly and connected in ways they'd rather not think about. Truly a terrific piece of writing!!
"Rain patters down softly against the windowsill, forming small rosettes of water, frail and soon gone.
The stereo is on, volume turned low.
“I abhor Mozart,” Sherlock drones from the sofa.
“You are in my house. We will listen to whatever I choose.” Mycroft stares at his brother with tired eyes and twists one corner of his mouth down. “I am anticipating a full refund for the spectacular damage done to my undeserving bedroom, by the way.”
Sherlock snorts, but only because they both know he’s poor as a church mouse and a thousand times less faithful.
The music rolls on.
“‘Confutatis… maledictis…’” Sherlock chants along with the choir. “They’re singing about Hell.”
“‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,’” Mycroft quotes automatically.
Sherlock’s gaze flits to his brother, then back away. His closeness is strange and unusual, body oddly foreign in this context. “How true,” he says, before letting his eyelids fall shut."
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