Tag Archives: Johnlock

Friday QuickFic: Oh, What Would a Man Not Do for Love?

Benedict Cumberbatch as Julian Assange in 'The Fifth Estate'

Benedict Cumberbatch as Julian Assange in ‘The Fifth Estate’

Today’s quickfic is a shortie I wrote ages back, when the first pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch in ‘The Fifth Estate’ appeared.  That white-blonde wig and those bleached eyebrows were deeply disturbing to me, but they coalesced along with a line spoken by James Frain as the Spanish Ambassador, Don Alvaro de Quadra in the dazzling film, Elizabeth:

‘Oh, what would a man not do for love?’

*****

Once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes fell deeply in love with a man called John Watson.  So deeply in love that he had to kill himself.

Oh, what would a man not do for love?

Sherlock did it.  Sherlock did it all.

He saved his lover, but at the cost of himself.

Eight months is a long time when you are mourning.  Two men grieving on opposite sides of a door, a wall, a world.

*****

Sherlock turned up again, eight months later, frightened, exhausted, emaciated and with a sniper hot on his tail.

He waited to knock until he saw Mrs Hudson go out to her regular Bingo.  He knew John would be up in the flat, settling down to watch the afternoon match with a beer or two.  The Irregulars had warned him that sometimes Lestrade had taken to joining John, keeping him company.  The Inspector had been seen coming and going regularly.  Keeping an eye on him, they said.  But he was not there that day.

Sherlock was leaning on the door frame when John opened up.  The little doctor let out a cry of shock, and Sherlock slumped forward, no longer able to hold himself up.  He was faintly aware of the door closing as John’s arms folded around him, breaking his fall.  Then there was just the gloom of the familiar entrance hall, the hideous wallpaper (he had forgotten how much he hated that wallpaper), and John’s sweet smell.

*****

John sat with his back resting against the wall, and Sherlock’s head in his lap.  Sometimes his fingers slipped gently through Sherlock’s tragic hair – what had not been wrecked by the bleach had been finished off by hormones and straightening irons.  Sometimes he sighed and stared at the wall.  And in time, his palm came to rest on Sherlock’s distended belly.

‘How long?’ he whispered, as if he was afraid of the sound of his own voice, when it was really the answer he dreaded.

‘When we were last together.’  Sherlock tried to get up, but his body felt too heavy.  He had run too far and slept too little.  He had struggled too long alone.  He had no strength left in him now.

John’s hand circled a little.

And something underneath it moved.

‘He knows his daddy,’ Sherlock smiled.

Then John turned his sad eyes on him, wretched haunted eyes.

‘Did you know?  When you fell, did you-‘

‘If I had, I would never have jumped, I swear.  I would have tried to find some other way.’

John’s lip began to tremble.  ‘Just tell me why?’

And he did.

*****

The words were halting, sticking to his tongue.  He fought his way through the labyrinth, through the remorse and the guilt, through John’s tears too, when they finally came, when he realised his lover had no choice at the last.  The leaden weight finally lifted, the burden at last shared.  And then he closed his eyes and turned his face to John’s warm body, his home.

*****

Happy Creating,

EF

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Friday QuickFic: Ravioli

Prosciutto and Mushroom Ravioli Recipe, click for source

Prosciutto and Mushroom Ravioli Recipe, click for source

“John is late home from a long stint at the clinic. He has picked up his favourite meal on the way home, at the Tesco metro round the corner.”

November is proving to be more of a struggle healthwise than I had expected. Laid up again with stomach problems, I am behind with all the things I wanted to achieve this month, not least of which are my blog posts.  In an effort to make it up to my darling readers, here is a little morsel that I hope you will enjoy.

Click here to read ‘Ravioli’ at A03.

Happy Creating,

EF

Monday Quick Fic: Wings

john and sherlockI was having a bit of a crisis last week, and the adorable agnesanutter was so kind and sweet and supportive.  I promised to write her something.  A Johnlock, which I had thought, in the midst of my meltdown, that I would never manage to write again.  I made this today.  Its a little along the lines of ‘Shark’, but longer and deeper. A little more angsty perhaps.

Dear Agnes, I hope you like it.

  ” They had been sharing the Baker Street flat for a month when Sherlock finally challenged him.  John was amazed it had taken him that long.

            ‘I never see you naked,’ he said, out of the blue.

            ‘Don’t pussy about, Sherlock.  Just say what you think, never mind about holding back and considering my feelings!’

            ‘Feelings have nothing to do with it.  Why do you keep yourself covered all the time?’”

Read the rest here.

Happy Creating,

EF

Friday Quick Fic: Dead Men Don’t Make Toast

This is an experiment.  I don’t think its a poem, but its not prose either.  Its Post Reichenbach – Sherlock’s dogged determination to break down John’s resistance.  This fic will not be published elsewhere.  Please comment, I want to know what to do with this to polish it more.  Thanks

Dead Men Don’t Make Toast

I.

‘You’re dead!’  John shouted and slammed the front door.

Sherlock picked the lock.

II.

Sherlock made tea.

‘You’re dead,’ John snapped.

The tea sat there, and grew cold.

Sherlock made another one.

That grew cold too.

III.

John curled up under the covers.

Foetal.

Sherlock pulled the duvet up around John’s shoulder.

‘Go away, you’re dead,’ John muttered.

IV.

Sherlock made toast.

John said, ‘Dead men don’t make toast.’

Sherlock had to agree.

V.

They were running out of milk.

What with all the cold tea, and everything.

Sherlock went out and bought more.

And some other bits they needed.

John said, ‘Dead men don’t go food shopping.’

VI.

Sherlock made tea.

‘You’re dead, go away,’ said John.

But he drank the tea.

VII.

Sherlock warmed the pizza in the oven.

It was pepperoni, John’s favourite.

‘Dead men don’t make pizza,’ John said, as he chewed resentfully.

VIII.

That night was cold.

John shivered under the duvet.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and climbed in.

Wrapped John in his long arms and his tweed overcoat.

John said, ‘I hate you.  Go away, you’re dead.’

IX.

In the morning, Sherlock made toast.

John said, ’You make a lot of toast for a dead man.’

X.

John made tea.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Enjoy your weekend – I’m off on my writers retreat!  See you Monday xxx

EF

Journal Friday: The Emotional Swingometer

go away bagThe Creative Life is a carnival ride.  Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Right now I am on the rollercoaster.

Thank goodness for my diary.  If it were not for that little Moleskine notebook, I would be a complete basketcase.  Actually, I’m probably still a complete basketcase, but I feel better about it, because I write it all down.

The days when I am completely sure I have squeezed every last drop of juice out of Johnlock.

They days when I can’t stop writing Johnlock.

The days when I have so many ideas for stories that I don’t know what to do with them all.

The days when my imagination is a barren wasteland.

The days when one comment has convinced me that my work is utter crap and I owe it to the world to never write again.

The days when a stroppy comment has filled me with so much anger and resentment and martyrdom that I am going to passive-aggressively hold the entire fandom to ransom by never publishing another Johnlock story again because frankly those bitches are all so ungrateful.  (as if they’d even notice.)

The days when that novel I am writing is the greatest thing ever written.

The days when that novel is so bad I am ashamed to even walk into the same room as my laptop.

The days when reviews flood in, and I am Queen of the World and Goddess of All Writing and my ego is the size of Jupiter.

The days when the reviews flood in, and they just aren’t praising me enough, they’ll never say enough good things about me because I am so bloody wonderful, which of course means that secretly I know without doubt that I am an absolute fraud and completely useless.

The days when the reviews flood in, and I am cowering under my desk in shame that anybody could think that story I wrote is readable.

The days when I am satisfied because I have written something that I think is good.  Good in the way that tapping on solid mahogany with your knuckles is good.  Something that is out of my own real, original voice.  Something that I am satisfied with.

The days when the fandom bores me to tears, or irritates the hell out of me, and so does my writing.

The days when I know my writing is completely stagnant, and I need to progress onto the next stage but I don’t know where to start.

And the days when I just sit down and write.

Before, or after I have written some fiction, I take a little time to reflect.  Sometimes I write in my journal to get my juices flowing, the way Morning Pages are supposed to.  Sometimes I write afterwards, to reflect on where I am going, on my emotional equilibrium (or lack of it).

Usually, when I have published a story, I watch the comments coming in, and try to write through my responses, the paranoid ones and the egotistical ones, the happy, the grateful and the furious.

My journal helps me keep my writing experience in perspective.  There isn’t a lot of perspective about our own creativity, lets face it.  We are all reared to be perfectionists, to rule ourselves out in the basis of not being Picasso, or to believe ourselves to be Dickens without needing to do the hard work.  It is so hard to be objective.

My journal helps me remember that the only life I am saving when I write is my own.  In the great scheme of things, this is not battlefield surgery.  Or, if it is, it is on my emotions alone.  That is why objectivity is important.

I need to remember that my writing is not about what other people think.  It’s about me.  At its very core, it is about healing my own wounds. 

Even if I never publish another word, I will still keep writing, partly because it’s a compulsion, and partly because it mends my soul.

That is why keeping a journal is crucial for every creative person, whether you are amateur or professional.  It reminds you of the WHY.

How do you use your journal in your creative process?

Happy journaling,

EF

Smorgesbord

sleep sketchI usually try to post on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but this week’s Wednesday post got missed because I was ill.  I’m still ill, but my brain is slightly clearer today and I am giving myself to thinking time.

Thinking about future posts for this blog.  Thinking about writing and notebooking.  Thinking about art.  Thinking about clearing space in my life for more creativity.  Its a luxury I have to lie in bed and consider which direction I am going in creatively, and I recognise that.  Few people get that option.  I may be feeling terrible, but I’m enormously grateful I can use this time to be present with my work.

I thought I’d share a few things I have been mulling over with you.

Here are the thoughts of Elmore Leonard on writing, an enormous inspiration.

Here is Stephen King, saying illuminating things about both ‘The Shining’ and about the attitude of critics, something I really needed to hear this week.

Talking about critics, Jack Vettriano has been savaged by the art establishment over the years, but now he’s having a retrospective at the Kelvingrove.  Oh, the irony!  (And lets just remind ourselves that this man is self-taught, which may be why critics hate him so much.)

If you are interested in art, check out this site.  I love its brightness and enthusiasm.

I want to do this course next.

And to end, a little light reading.  I’m pursuing a new project of short stories and vignettes which explore life inside an established relationship through fanfiction.  The series is called ‘Geography of a Shared Life’.  You can read my latest piece here at A03, and here at FF.net.

Happy creating,

EF

New Fanfic Story: An Anatomy of Intimacy

john and sherlockI am struggling to avoid my brain leaking out of my right eyeball just now because of a migraine, but I felt I needed to post today to say ‘Hi!’, and so I thought I would draw your attention to a new story I have put up!

It’s called ‘An Anatomy of Intimacy’, and is a companion piece to my earlier work, ‘Personal Geography’.

I’ve been playing about with a little toy project, just a bit of fun to keep my brain working.  This involves writing short pieces exploring the reality of John and Sherlock’s life together in an established relationship.  The idea is to create a few little windows into life behind closed doors at 221B.  These aren’t supposed to be regular things, or part of an ongoing story, just an occasional morsel of something intended to illustrate the profound connection between them.

I hope you like them.

Happy reading,

EF