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aliyn_ravenFanfics about Sherlock BBC
"Soft silk is hard to tear"
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.
Sherlock Holmes hated doctors. And he hated hospitals. But only Mike Stamford believed that Sherlock's voice could be restored to the ability to sing. And Sherlock tolerated the visits to the hospital and Mike's subsequent chatter in the hospital cafe.
Sherlock even learned to take profit from it: Mike was the only one who agreed with him that the world is made of idiots. And even understood that Sally Donovan was not suitable for the new song by Sherlock.
"You have good news today," Mike said as they sat down at a table in the cafe. "I have found someone who can sing your Great Song."
Sherlock raised an ironic eyebrow. Is Mike better than Mycroft's utilities? But he still asked, "And who is it?"
"My fellow student. Didn't even know he was back in England. I met by chance with him in Sussex."
"I can't be seen wandering around with an old man," Sherlock said indignantly.
Mike didn't take offense. Sherlock and communication skills are in different universes, but the song is really magnificent, and Mike wanted to finally hear it in full form instead of Sherlock's raucous singing and uploading it to his favorite playlist on the phone.
"No one is forcing you to meet him in person. You can look at it through the mirror in the rehearsal room and send corrections via SMS."
"What is he like?" Sherlock reluctantly starts to give way.
"A Captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps, now retired because of a wound, works as a general practitioner at a shelter for the Army disabled. He said that he played the clarinet at school and said nothing about King's College London, but he played the guitar decently and sang not badly at Barts. He plays the piano a little, like everyone who has somehow studied some kind of music."
"Not badly, decently…" Sherlock said in disgust. "The Internet is chock-full of amateurs who have the singing talent of a sparrow, but they consider themselves nightingales."
"It's exactly the opposite. John Watson is not a nightingale, but... This is more than any heavenly trills."
Mike turned on a recording on his phone from some concert in such an openly provincial entertainment center that Sherlock even grimaced.
The sound was turned off because of hospital regulations that required the phone to only vibrate and forbade doctors from watching outside video while working. So it was just a picture. On the stage was a nondescript, small man of plebeian appearance. Sherlock slightly zoomed in on the image, gave it a quick glance, and pushed his phone away.
"Mike, he's no good," Sherlock said. "He doesn't have a voice, but the rumble of a rusty Land Rover. If he had anything fit for the ears, it remained in Afghanistan or Iraq because of the many special missions."
"What? How do you know?"
"Mike, have you forgotten how to become a doctor? To do this, one must study for ten years, after working under supervision for two years, and only after that a person of medicine receives permission to practice independently."
"I remember it perfectly, but what does John's voice have to do with it?" Mike didn't understand.
"He didn't work in a hospital. You can see it in the tan line," Sherlock explained. "Only the face and hands. He did not have a clear schedule or the opportunity to sunbathe. The doctor is too expensive a commodity, so they are never in the war zone or even near it. Only orderlies fight, and there are paramedics at the casualty collection point, which are also too expensive to fight, but they can be used in an evacuation helicopter. In order for a doctor to be in the combat squad, these must be especially difficult special missions in the most dangerous conditions. And since the voice is a very fragile instrument, Watson, after his adventures, can only order beer and yell at soldiers."
"The vocal cords," Mike replied, "regenerate very well. That is why I undertook to treat you. As for Watson... Just listen. I specifically asked him to sing your song. The one you let anyone who wants to use for benefit concerts."
Sherlock grinned angrily. He hated this song. It is associated with too bad events.
Mike set the player slider to the beginning and turned on the sound. Sherlock hissed in annoyance at the poor quality of the recording. Mike's phone has great speakers, but the mic and camera are not good. Sherlock had been telling him to change his device a long time ago.
And it wasn't just the recording that was crappy. The sound engineer at the organizers of this action was an idiot. He placed the piano on the stage so that it would drown out the singers. And this is although the acoustics of the room itself left much to be desired.
But the singing of John Watson... It dug into the heart with tiger claws, it caressed the soul like soft silk. However, this was nothing compared to how John Watson filled the song with meaning. And feelings. This nondescript little man was able to do what he really wanted, but Sherlock himself could not express it.
"Words often don't come easy," (6)
"I never loved to show you the inside of me, oh no, my baby."
Not the best voice from a vocal point of view, but in some strange, demonic way, this non-bestness created something that the ideal, perfect beauty and polished voice of Sherlock could not cope with.
How, how, HOW does he do it?! All these pauses, recitatives and stretches are placed so impossibly appropriate that they create a universe. No, John Watson did much more: he pierced an old boil in Sherlock's soul and let out all the pus. And, as vulgar as this ancient and well-worn metaphor may be, Sherlock actually began to breathe easier.
"I was always on the run,"
"Finding out what"
"I was looking for and"
"I was always insecure, just until I found…"
Yes. It is him. The very best, long-awaited tool that Sherlock had been looking for so long. John Watson will execute the Great Song just the right way.
"Give me his phone number," Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson will contact him."
"You must go yourself," Mike said. "And find the right words to make John Watson want to record your song. On my next day off, I'll take you to John's, introduce you to him and give a good review about you, because you will ruin everything by yourself."
Sherlock took the coffee. He won't wander around the province, especially if it's damn Sussex, for some kind of shabby army boot with exorbitant self-importance. Better steal another utility from Mycroft's lackeys.
***
Anderson tried very hard to calmly and with the majesty of a star walk along the corridor of the studio, and not rush at a gallop with joyful cries.
He received a song by Sherlock Holmes from the chief content manager! And not just received, the studio allowed him to make his own arrangement and adopted amendments to the lyrics.
[I'll show this psychopath how to work!] thought Anderson. ["He just pulled the gem out of the ground. But I will cut it into brilliant! And no one will remember who brought the raw material. Everyone will see only the jeweler who made it a jewel.]
**********
(6) This is "You" by Ten Sharp. This post was taken as a sample:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhu3y5Y2OGQ
But there are many options with better recording quality.
"Soft silk is hard to tear"
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.
Sherlock Holmes hated doctors. And he hated hospitals. But only Mike Stamford believed that Sherlock's voice could be restored to the ability to sing. And Sherlock tolerated the visits to the hospital and Mike's subsequent chatter in the hospital cafe.
Sherlock even learned to take profit from it: Mike was the only one who agreed with him that the world is made of idiots. And even understood that Sally Donovan was not suitable for the new song by Sherlock.
"You have good news today," Mike said as they sat down at a table in the cafe. "I have found someone who can sing your Great Song."
Sherlock raised an ironic eyebrow. Is Mike better than Mycroft's utilities? But he still asked, "And who is it?"
"My fellow student. Didn't even know he was back in England. I met by chance with him in Sussex."
"I can't be seen wandering around with an old man," Sherlock said indignantly.
Mike didn't take offense. Sherlock and communication skills are in different universes, but the song is really magnificent, and Mike wanted to finally hear it in full form instead of Sherlock's raucous singing and uploading it to his favorite playlist on the phone.
"No one is forcing you to meet him in person. You can look at it through the mirror in the rehearsal room and send corrections via SMS."
"What is he like?" Sherlock reluctantly starts to give way.
"A Captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps, now retired because of a wound, works as a general practitioner at a shelter for the Army disabled. He said that he played the clarinet at school and said nothing about King's College London, but he played the guitar decently and sang not badly at Barts. He plays the piano a little, like everyone who has somehow studied some kind of music."
"Not badly, decently…" Sherlock said in disgust. "The Internet is chock-full of amateurs who have the singing talent of a sparrow, but they consider themselves nightingales."
"It's exactly the opposite. John Watson is not a nightingale, but... This is more than any heavenly trills."
Mike turned on a recording on his phone from some concert in such an openly provincial entertainment center that Sherlock even grimaced.
The sound was turned off because of hospital regulations that required the phone to only vibrate and forbade doctors from watching outside video while working. So it was just a picture. On the stage was a nondescript, small man of plebeian appearance. Sherlock slightly zoomed in on the image, gave it a quick glance, and pushed his phone away.
"Mike, he's no good," Sherlock said. "He doesn't have a voice, but the rumble of a rusty Land Rover. If he had anything fit for the ears, it remained in Afghanistan or Iraq because of the many special missions."
"What? How do you know?"
"Mike, have you forgotten how to become a doctor? To do this, one must study for ten years, after working under supervision for two years, and only after that a person of medicine receives permission to practice independently."
"I remember it perfectly, but what does John's voice have to do with it?" Mike didn't understand.
"He didn't work in a hospital. You can see it in the tan line," Sherlock explained. "Only the face and hands. He did not have a clear schedule or the opportunity to sunbathe. The doctor is too expensive a commodity, so they are never in the war zone or even near it. Only orderlies fight, and there are paramedics at the casualty collection point, which are also too expensive to fight, but they can be used in an evacuation helicopter. In order for a doctor to be in the combat squad, these must be especially difficult special missions in the most dangerous conditions. And since the voice is a very fragile instrument, Watson, after his adventures, can only order beer and yell at soldiers."
"The vocal cords," Mike replied, "regenerate very well. That is why I undertook to treat you. As for Watson... Just listen. I specifically asked him to sing your song. The one you let anyone who wants to use for benefit concerts."
Sherlock grinned angrily. He hated this song. It is associated with too bad events.
Mike set the player slider to the beginning and turned on the sound. Sherlock hissed in annoyance at the poor quality of the recording. Mike's phone has great speakers, but the mic and camera are not good. Sherlock had been telling him to change his device a long time ago.
And it wasn't just the recording that was crappy. The sound engineer at the organizers of this action was an idiot. He placed the piano on the stage so that it would drown out the singers. And this is although the acoustics of the room itself left much to be desired.
But the singing of John Watson... It dug into the heart with tiger claws, it caressed the soul like soft silk. However, this was nothing compared to how John Watson filled the song with meaning. And feelings. This nondescript little man was able to do what he really wanted, but Sherlock himself could not express it.
"Words often don't come easy," (6)
"I never loved to show you the inside of me, oh no, my baby."
Not the best voice from a vocal point of view, but in some strange, demonic way, this non-bestness created something that the ideal, perfect beauty and polished voice of Sherlock could not cope with.
How, how, HOW does he do it?! All these pauses, recitatives and stretches are placed so impossibly appropriate that they create a universe. No, John Watson did much more: he pierced an old boil in Sherlock's soul and let out all the pus. And, as vulgar as this ancient and well-worn metaphor may be, Sherlock actually began to breathe easier.
"I was always on the run,"
"Finding out what"
"I was looking for and"
"I was always insecure, just until I found…"
Yes. It is him. The very best, long-awaited tool that Sherlock had been looking for so long. John Watson will execute the Great Song just the right way.
"Give me his phone number," Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson will contact him."
"You must go yourself," Mike said. "And find the right words to make John Watson want to record your song. On my next day off, I'll take you to John's, introduce you to him and give a good review about you, because you will ruin everything by yourself."
Sherlock took the coffee. He won't wander around the province, especially if it's damn Sussex, for some kind of shabby army boot with exorbitant self-importance. Better steal another utility from Mycroft's lackeys.
***
Anderson tried very hard to calmly and with the majesty of a star walk along the corridor of the studio, and not rush at a gallop with joyful cries.
He received a song by Sherlock Holmes from the chief content manager! And not just received, the studio allowed him to make his own arrangement and adopted amendments to the lyrics.
[I'll show this psychopath how to work!] thought Anderson. ["He just pulled the gem out of the ground. But I will cut it into brilliant! And no one will remember who brought the raw material. Everyone will see only the jeweler who made it a jewel.]
**********
(6) This is "You" by Ten Sharp. This post was taken as a sample:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhu3y5Y2OGQ
But there are many options with better recording quality.
