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May. 29th, 2023 11:29 amMy new page with fanfics. Perhaps it will be more convenient for some readers.
https://www.fanfiction.net/u/15840326
https://www.fanfiction.net/u/15840326
May. 29th, 2023
AU! No summary so far. It's about music, show business and a new life after a disaster. John+Sherlock. Slowburn.
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14237516/1/Soft-silk-is-hard-to-tear
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
"You are a producer!" Sherlock Holmes said with blame to Lestrade. He rushed around Lestrade's office and looked like a cat in the first hour of the night: that cherished time when the cat decides that the owners urgently need a warm-up.
Lestrade looked at him with patient indulgence. Sherlock stopped abruptly at Lestrade's desk.
"If you're good for anything, find me a singer! Or bring Bill Wiggins to a sane state. He's not what this song needs at all, but he's a very good actor and I can make from such material what is suitable for it."
"If you persuade Wiggins for treatment," Lestrade replied calmly. "I'll get him into the best anonymous clinic. You can rehearse a song with him and record for a video there, doctors defend it for art therapy."
"You are as clumsy in humor as you are in producing!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I wrote a brilliant thing, and you know it! She will take this third-rate studio to the stars!"
Sherlock wheezed and coughed. Lestrade stood up, filled a glass of warm water from the water cooler in the corner behind the cabinet, and gave it to Sherlock. He burned him with a hateful look but took the water and drank slowly so that the water would warm and soften his throat.
When Sherlock got himself so that to hear and understand what he was hearing, Lestrade said:
"Give the song to Sally Donovan."
"She doesn't know how to sing! And never will learn!"
"Donovan is a professional vocalist. And she has excellent qualities."
"It's physiology," Sherlock croaked in disgust. "But there is no life in it."
"She sings soul very well."
"If a snail listens to it in a shell," Sherlock grumbled.
"She's the only one who would really take the risk of accepting a song from you. Everyone talks about this song, and everyone who sees the notes and the text wants it and doesn't spare praise — they don't praise you, for a song! — but no one will take it. A connection with you is too dangerous for a career. Studio stock is going down just because I didn't end my contract with you. It was you who kicked the studio off the leaderboard. Artists start to leave from here, and these are not newcomers! It cost me a lot of effort and gray hair to convince the direction that you can still bring in good money and that you are not a corpse. But if Sally doesn't sing your song, you will become it. Zero. Your name, your songs — everything will be forgotten forever. And you will pay compensation to the studio!"
"Sally will ruin everything!" Sherlock croaked stubbornly. "Her level is normal, but my song is brilliant. I will find the right material for the performance myself! And when he blows up YouTube, your direction will fall at my feet."
Sherlock left the office with the grace and arrogance of an elven king.
"Break your leg (4)" said Lestrade.
***
"John?!" astonished Mike Stamford. And he shouted to the whole district: "John Watson!"
John stopped and looked at him, obviously not recognizing him. Mike himself also didn't immediately recognize his former fellow student from Barts. Mainly because Mike never expected to see him at a bus stop on a country road in Sussex. And see him like this…
Mike muttered in confusion, "And our guys said that you became someone cool in Afghanistan."
"Afghanistan did cold me a little."
"Oh…" Mike didn't know what to say. And John offered to drink homemade ale in a country pub.
Mike was always won over by John's optimism. No matter what happened, he always got up and kept walking. Even now, he remained a light. And Mike himself did not notice how he agreed to participate in a charity concert. He didn't shine with any talents, but he was a good manager of the university rugby team. And he easily persuaded the local laboratory of Barts to extend his business trip. Barts could not refuse, because none of the doctors on staff wanted to go to the wilderness even for a day, let alone a week. Mike himself agreed only because not far from the laboratory was the cottage of his elderly aunt, whom he loved very much, but had not seen for a long time. And now Mike is here for another week because of Watson's bloody magic. And Mike didn't regret it. Despite the shelter, despite the huge amount of work for which he was not paid, Mike was fun and easy, as if his college days were back.
***
Sherlock tried all the utilities for finding the right content in social networks, which he stole from Mycroft at one time. And found only emptiness. There is no material that is worthy to sing his song. And time is running out. The trial and the scandal associated with it are getting closer. If Sherlock doesn't have a weapon, then all these stupid greedy mediocrities will crush him.
The brother will be happy about this. Mycroft's biggest dream is to get Sherlock locked up for a dull bureaucratic job in some damn stuffy office on Whitehall or on Prince Albert Embankment. (5)
That is why Mycroft did not help Sherlock get out of the web of the scandal Janine Hawkins has involved him in, although Sherlock hired her to impersonate his girlfriend at Mycroft's insistence, in order "not to worry Mummy with his sodomite life."
Damn Mycroft! And Mummy there too...
Sherlock hated his childhood.
And now he would not be surprised, if Janine didn't act on her own initiative, but sold herself to Mycroft. Scandalous interviews are profitable, but not enough to buy a seaside bee farm in England and convert it into a lady's residence.
But these are emotions. The rubbish that interferes with work. Sherlock closed the search programs, got up from the table and took the violin, checked the pickup and the connection to the laptop's audio editor. As soon as one job does not work out because of emotions, it is necessary to use them where the rubbish turns into building material for the creation palace.
***
The psychotherapy room changed when it got a new owner. White walls became beige, cozy, and brown curtains dimmed the light. People no longer felt like a midge under a microscope. Now it was a living room for chatting with a friend.
"John," Eurus said softly, "you know you have a gift for music and the stage. Why do you dislike attention to your talents?"
"I don't like it. I also don’t like coffee with sugar, but it’s not because I suffer from hypochondria and I’m afraid of caries. I just love the clean taste of coffee and of a job well done that really was for someone needed. Noise interferes with taste buds."
Eurus laughed.
"You have the gift of the word besides this. Have you tried writing something?"
"Only case histories," John smiled. "Each time it is a very extensive narrative."
"Oh yes," Eurus nodded. "And how!"
She looked at John seriously.
"Breaking free from adrenaline addiction is not easy. Especially when there is no opportunity to participate in a rugby match or invade Afghanistan. But if you write stories about adventures, it will allow you to experience them no less vividly than in reality. Jules Verne caught a cold during the summer without leaving his office while writing a novel about the North Pole."
"The Adventures of Captain Hatteras"? John clarified and smiled. "Ho! What an interesting case of psychosomatic disorder. I didn't know about it."
"But you read the not most popular book by a French author," Eurus said. "This is unusual for a Briton, even if the hero of the book is his fellow countryman. You see the world wider than most people. So use it. I agree with my colleague that blogging will help you adapt to your new life. But I suggest writing there not about what is happening around you, but inside you. Your thoughts. The worlds that your head creates. If it does this, she will have no time to torment you with psychosomatic lameness and tremor of the hand, for which there is no physical basis. You know better than me that the recovery from the wound was quite successful. And a shard in your leg can't affect how you walk."
John got pensive, appreciating what he heard, even without noticing it, stretched out his lips with a tube, he thought so seriously.
"Anyway," he said, "it's better than a life where nothing happens."
"And the writer or blogger is only in the spotlight on the day of the signing of autographs," Eurus said.
"Oh, that's a serious argument," John laughed.
**********
(4) Music world of the UK and USA, perhaps other English-speaking countries as well, has a widespread superstition that you shouldn't wish a singer, producer, sound engineer, etc. good luck because it will lead to failure. Instead, you should say a curse to the person. The most popular of them is the wish to break a leg.
(5) Whitehall is a road and area in London. This place has many departments and ministries, including the Ministry of Defence, Horse Guards and the Cabinet Office. MI6, Secret Intelligence Service of Great Britain, is on the Prince Albert Embankment in London.
https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14237516/1/Soft-silk-is-hard-to-tear
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
"You are a producer!" Sherlock Holmes said with blame to Lestrade. He rushed around Lestrade's office and looked like a cat in the first hour of the night: that cherished time when the cat decides that the owners urgently need a warm-up.
Lestrade looked at him with patient indulgence. Sherlock stopped abruptly at Lestrade's desk.
"If you're good for anything, find me a singer! Or bring Bill Wiggins to a sane state. He's not what this song needs at all, but he's a very good actor and I can make from such material what is suitable for it."
"If you persuade Wiggins for treatment," Lestrade replied calmly. "I'll get him into the best anonymous clinic. You can rehearse a song with him and record for a video there, doctors defend it for art therapy."
"You are as clumsy in humor as you are in producing!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I wrote a brilliant thing, and you know it! She will take this third-rate studio to the stars!"
Sherlock wheezed and coughed. Lestrade stood up, filled a glass of warm water from the water cooler in the corner behind the cabinet, and gave it to Sherlock. He burned him with a hateful look but took the water and drank slowly so that the water would warm and soften his throat.
When Sherlock got himself so that to hear and understand what he was hearing, Lestrade said:
"Give the song to Sally Donovan."
"She doesn't know how to sing! And never will learn!"
"Donovan is a professional vocalist. And she has excellent qualities."
"It's physiology," Sherlock croaked in disgust. "But there is no life in it."
"She sings soul very well."
"If a snail listens to it in a shell," Sherlock grumbled.
"She's the only one who would really take the risk of accepting a song from you. Everyone talks about this song, and everyone who sees the notes and the text wants it and doesn't spare praise — they don't praise you, for a song! — but no one will take it. A connection with you is too dangerous for a career. Studio stock is going down just because I didn't end my contract with you. It was you who kicked the studio off the leaderboard. Artists start to leave from here, and these are not newcomers! It cost me a lot of effort and gray hair to convince the direction that you can still bring in good money and that you are not a corpse. But if Sally doesn't sing your song, you will become it. Zero. Your name, your songs — everything will be forgotten forever. And you will pay compensation to the studio!"
"Sally will ruin everything!" Sherlock croaked stubbornly. "Her level is normal, but my song is brilliant. I will find the right material for the performance myself! And when he blows up YouTube, your direction will fall at my feet."
Sherlock left the office with the grace and arrogance of an elven king.
"Break your leg (4)" said Lestrade.
***
"John?!" astonished Mike Stamford. And he shouted to the whole district: "John Watson!"
John stopped and looked at him, obviously not recognizing him. Mike himself also didn't immediately recognize his former fellow student from Barts. Mainly because Mike never expected to see him at a bus stop on a country road in Sussex. And see him like this…
Mike muttered in confusion, "And our guys said that you became someone cool in Afghanistan."
"Afghanistan did cold me a little."
"Oh…" Mike didn't know what to say. And John offered to drink homemade ale in a country pub.
Mike was always won over by John's optimism. No matter what happened, he always got up and kept walking. Even now, he remained a light. And Mike himself did not notice how he agreed to participate in a charity concert. He didn't shine with any talents, but he was a good manager of the university rugby team. And he easily persuaded the local laboratory of Barts to extend his business trip. Barts could not refuse, because none of the doctors on staff wanted to go to the wilderness even for a day, let alone a week. Mike himself agreed only because not far from the laboratory was the cottage of his elderly aunt, whom he loved very much, but had not seen for a long time. And now Mike is here for another week because of Watson's bloody magic. And Mike didn't regret it. Despite the shelter, despite the huge amount of work for which he was not paid, Mike was fun and easy, as if his college days were back.
***
Sherlock tried all the utilities for finding the right content in social networks, which he stole from Mycroft at one time. And found only emptiness. There is no material that is worthy to sing his song. And time is running out. The trial and the scandal associated with it are getting closer. If Sherlock doesn't have a weapon, then all these stupid greedy mediocrities will crush him.
The brother will be happy about this. Mycroft's biggest dream is to get Sherlock locked up for a dull bureaucratic job in some damn stuffy office on Whitehall or on Prince Albert Embankment. (5)
That is why Mycroft did not help Sherlock get out of the web of the scandal Janine Hawkins has involved him in, although Sherlock hired her to impersonate his girlfriend at Mycroft's insistence, in order "not to worry Mummy with his sodomite life."
Damn Mycroft! And Mummy there too...
Sherlock hated his childhood.
And now he would not be surprised, if Janine didn't act on her own initiative, but sold herself to Mycroft. Scandalous interviews are profitable, but not enough to buy a seaside bee farm in England and convert it into a lady's residence.
But these are emotions. The rubbish that interferes with work. Sherlock closed the search programs, got up from the table and took the violin, checked the pickup and the connection to the laptop's audio editor. As soon as one job does not work out because of emotions, it is necessary to use them where the rubbish turns into building material for the creation palace.
***
The psychotherapy room changed when it got a new owner. White walls became beige, cozy, and brown curtains dimmed the light. People no longer felt like a midge under a microscope. Now it was a living room for chatting with a friend.
"John," Eurus said softly, "you know you have a gift for music and the stage. Why do you dislike attention to your talents?"
"I don't like it. I also don’t like coffee with sugar, but it’s not because I suffer from hypochondria and I’m afraid of caries. I just love the clean taste of coffee and of a job well done that really was for someone needed. Noise interferes with taste buds."
Eurus laughed.
"You have the gift of the word besides this. Have you tried writing something?"
"Only case histories," John smiled. "Each time it is a very extensive narrative."
"Oh yes," Eurus nodded. "And how!"
She looked at John seriously.
"Breaking free from adrenaline addiction is not easy. Especially when there is no opportunity to participate in a rugby match or invade Afghanistan. But if you write stories about adventures, it will allow you to experience them no less vividly than in reality. Jules Verne caught a cold during the summer without leaving his office while writing a novel about the North Pole."
"The Adventures of Captain Hatteras"? John clarified and smiled. "Ho! What an interesting case of psychosomatic disorder. I didn't know about it."
"But you read the not most popular book by a French author," Eurus said. "This is unusual for a Briton, even if the hero of the book is his fellow countryman. You see the world wider than most people. So use it. I agree with my colleague that blogging will help you adapt to your new life. But I suggest writing there not about what is happening around you, but inside you. Your thoughts. The worlds that your head creates. If it does this, she will have no time to torment you with psychosomatic lameness and tremor of the hand, for which there is no physical basis. You know better than me that the recovery from the wound was quite successful. And a shard in your leg can't affect how you walk."
John got pensive, appreciating what he heard, even without noticing it, stretched out his lips with a tube, he thought so seriously.
"Anyway," he said, "it's better than a life where nothing happens."
"And the writer or blogger is only in the spotlight on the day of the signing of autographs," Eurus said.
"Oh, that's a serious argument," John laughed.
**********
(4) Music world of the UK and USA, perhaps other English-speaking countries as well, has a widespread superstition that you shouldn't wish a singer, producer, sound engineer, etc. good luck because it will lead to failure. Instead, you should say a curse to the person. The most popular of them is the wish to break a leg.
(5) Whitehall is a road and area in London. This place has many departments and ministries, including the Ministry of Defence, Horse Guards and the Cabinet Office. MI6, Secret Intelligence Service of Great Britain, is on the Prince Albert Embankment in London.