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aliyn_ravenAU! 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 listened to John Watson sing over and over again. Both of the lousy-quality recordings that were on the net.
Nature created this little unprepossessing man to sing the Great Song by Sherlock. And there won't be anyone else in the near future. The law of probabilities, statistical regularities... This is undeniable.
But there are still laws of show business. And they say that you can release a shabby forty-year-old singer on stage only if he shone there for the previous twenty years. A forty-year-old composer-debutant is "A person who has reached personal maturity and revealed his talent." But if someone made his debut at forty as a singer, it's "The old goat crazy with marasmus climbs for the young people."
And what if he serves it with sauce "Sherlock Holmes' song can turn even an empty place into a star"? Watson will not object. He doesn't have a profitable profession for civilian life and is not suitable for work as a traumatologist. Municipal therapists are being cut due to the crisis, and he has neither a well-known name in the medical world nor friends in civilian life to get a place in a private clinic. Watson needs savings for old age, which is already knocking on the door. And the song will get him a place in a good quality private nursing home.
Sherlock picked up his phone and made an online order for a car rental. There is no point in waiting for Mike and his stupid recommendations. Mrs. Hudson doesn't want to hear about talking to John Watson without Mike, she is sure that there is no point in extra urgency, that this is another whim of Sherlock. Well, with this army boot, which, by misunderstanding, got the ability to sing, and who doesn't know how to use it, Sherlock can handle him himself.
***
The dead fellow snorted meth. John was sure of this, although he knew narcology only in general terms. The teeth and hair are badly damaged, but not the gums. On the other hand, there is inflammation in the corners of the mouth. But the fact that the guy didn't urinate before his death was strange: methamphetamines quickly lead to dysfunction of the internal organs, in which smooth muscles are present.
He also has injection marks on his hands, but there are a few of them, and they are all too neat.
John looked around the cheap hotel room. Nothing remarkable. And there is nothing remarkable about the dead man either. Common death from overdose. Or the usual dose, but the heart could not withstand another overload. This often happens with even young people. And yet... Why didn't he urinate? Even if he dropped himself not with meth, but with something else, the body still has characteristic damage and the picture of death will be like methamphetamine poisoning.
John hated feeling helpless. But here he was just like that. John couldn't figure out how to get the forensic doctor to do a thorough autopsy, a good toxicology test, not the way drug addicts are usually autopsied.
"Dirty drug," John tried. "Need a toxic..."
"He needed to have a brain," old bobby snapped. "Thanks, Doc. You can go home. The inspector and the pathologist on duty will not arrive soon."
He sat down in a chair with a dissatisfied look and took out his phone, and opened some kind of game. An ordinary patrolman could not seal a hotel room, and the prospect of guarding a corpse instead of walking through the streets of a quiet, cozy town did not please him. And those who make decisions will not rush for the sake of a drug addict. In addition, they will send interns, just to somehow follow the procedure.
John looked around the room again. The soldier's intuition screamed that there was a violent death, that she was hiding somewhere nearby. But it's not a terrorist. This is an ordinary household killer, like in the detective series that the dwellers of the shelter watch in the evenings in the living room. And John didn't know what to do.
[His friends!] he thought. [It's a band. The team.]
John wanted to talk to the rest of the musicians, but he didn't need to: Nance, the bassist for Still Waters, was already raging in the hallway.
"He was treated! Tim was on a methadone program! He cut the doses!" she shouted. Judging by the intermittency of the cries, someone is trying to hold Nance, and she breaks out.
Here is the explanation for the accuracy of the injections: they were made by nurses with sterile disposable syringes in clean treatment rooms. John ran out into the corridor.
"How long ago did he start substitution therapy?"
Nance immediately rushed to John, grabbed his jacket, buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears, repeating "Timmy couldn't."
John stroked her on the back, and the bellboy said:
"A junkie is a junkie. They say one thing, they do another."
John barely had time to intercept Nance, who rushed to the bellboy, fists clenched for a fight.
"Leave that, Nan," said Edwin, the band's frontman. "Tim was a washed-up, and you know it. He chose his own path. And we need to think about where to get a permanent drummer."
"Well, you're a goat!" said Dean, the piper.
"And who constantly insisted that Tim should be replaced?" Edwin replied with anger. "Your dream has come true. Looking for a replacement!"
He went down the corridor. And Nance began to sob on John's shoulder again.
***
Mrs. Hudson looked around Sherlock's living room. As though a tornado has been here. This means Sherlock was packing for a short trip.
The stupid boy rushed off to seek adventure on his brilliant head yet again. Dashing above all else. And common sense is falling under feet first of all.
We must arrange a room for this unfortunate John Watson. It is unlikely that he has money for a London hotel, even the cheapest one.
You can expect anything from Sherlock, but most likely he went after this guy. Mrs. Hudson smiled. Sherlock never gave up for long. Losing his voice is a hard blow, especially since it was Sherlock himself who was to blame, and almost everyone poked him to it with his nose like a puppy who had shit on the carpet.
Still, Sherlock didn't give up.
A good manager never bets on a lame horse. And Mrs. Hudson was the best.
***
John was standing by the cooler in the orphanage's dining room, so lost in thought that he forgot about the tea.
Nance said Still Waters made it to the finals of the Harp of Cernunnos competition. John searched the Internet for information. It was a major achievement for beginning musicians. If the band takes even third place, it is provided with a contract with one of the leading music studios and a solid promotion. But even just appearing on stage was beneficial: no one will be left without a producer. It may not be the coolest star-maker, but one that will raise the band well.
Also, Still Waters has a secret album, which they promised to post on music sites after the competition, they tried to attract as much attention to the new album as possible. The current album was not bad, but without good advertising, it was by no means at the top of sales.
And the death of the drummer, which Edwin spoke about on social networks, accompanied by vows that the band would pay more attention to the anti-drug movement, raised the number of paid auditions quite well.
Nance was furious that Edwin began to promote when Tim's body was not even taken to the morgue, the guitarist and the piper were also angry, but the guys were more and more worried about where to get a drummer, moreover, a permanent one, and not for one or two performances. No one heard Nance's words that Tim could not take a dirty drug, everyone brushed her off and called her a fool in love.
But John asked narcologists on a closed, doctor-only site. And intuitive suspicions received a material basis: Tim's nails. They were sick only at the top but grew up healthy. This is a person who not only cuts down on the drug but also takes vitamins and other restorative drugs.
John himself caught inflammation in the corners of his mouth. When treatment for addiction to drugs starts, it disappears. Nancy said that Tim complained of low energy and dizziness, but not of stomach problems. So, this isn't an exacerbation of gastritis. It's poisoning. Someone was giving Tim poison little by little. Dr. Watson's additional specialty was toxicology, and he could immediately name five poisons available to the layman that give a similar picture of death. Means for washing windows or expelling cockroaches can also be used to eliminate an unnecessary person if you are sure that there will be no normal autopsy.
But what's the point of killing Tim? Competitors did it? Still Waters is by no means among the predicted winners. There is no rivalry for the contract with anyone. No one was trying to seduce Nancy, so jealousy also disappears.
However, Tim is dead. And it wasn't the drugs that killed him.
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 listened to John Watson sing over and over again. Both of the lousy-quality recordings that were on the net.
Nature created this little unprepossessing man to sing the Great Song by Sherlock. And there won't be anyone else in the near future. The law of probabilities, statistical regularities... This is undeniable.
But there are still laws of show business. And they say that you can release a shabby forty-year-old singer on stage only if he shone there for the previous twenty years. A forty-year-old composer-debutant is "A person who has reached personal maturity and revealed his talent." But if someone made his debut at forty as a singer, it's "The old goat crazy with marasmus climbs for the young people."
And what if he serves it with sauce "Sherlock Holmes' song can turn even an empty place into a star"? Watson will not object. He doesn't have a profitable profession for civilian life and is not suitable for work as a traumatologist. Municipal therapists are being cut due to the crisis, and he has neither a well-known name in the medical world nor friends in civilian life to get a place in a private clinic. Watson needs savings for old age, which is already knocking on the door. And the song will get him a place in a good quality private nursing home.
Sherlock picked up his phone and made an online order for a car rental. There is no point in waiting for Mike and his stupid recommendations. Mrs. Hudson doesn't want to hear about talking to John Watson without Mike, she is sure that there is no point in extra urgency, that this is another whim of Sherlock. Well, with this army boot, which, by misunderstanding, got the ability to sing, and who doesn't know how to use it, Sherlock can handle him himself.
***
The dead fellow snorted meth. John was sure of this, although he knew narcology only in general terms. The teeth and hair are badly damaged, but not the gums. On the other hand, there is inflammation in the corners of the mouth. But the fact that the guy didn't urinate before his death was strange: methamphetamines quickly lead to dysfunction of the internal organs, in which smooth muscles are present.
He also has injection marks on his hands, but there are a few of them, and they are all too neat.
John looked around the cheap hotel room. Nothing remarkable. And there is nothing remarkable about the dead man either. Common death from overdose. Or the usual dose, but the heart could not withstand another overload. This often happens with even young people. And yet... Why didn't he urinate? Even if he dropped himself not with meth, but with something else, the body still has characteristic damage and the picture of death will be like methamphetamine poisoning.
John hated feeling helpless. But here he was just like that. John couldn't figure out how to get the forensic doctor to do a thorough autopsy, a good toxicology test, not the way drug addicts are usually autopsied.
"Dirty drug," John tried. "Need a toxic..."
"He needed to have a brain," old bobby snapped. "Thanks, Doc. You can go home. The inspector and the pathologist on duty will not arrive soon."
He sat down in a chair with a dissatisfied look and took out his phone, and opened some kind of game. An ordinary patrolman could not seal a hotel room, and the prospect of guarding a corpse instead of walking through the streets of a quiet, cozy town did not please him. And those who make decisions will not rush for the sake of a drug addict. In addition, they will send interns, just to somehow follow the procedure.
John looked around the room again. The soldier's intuition screamed that there was a violent death, that she was hiding somewhere nearby. But it's not a terrorist. This is an ordinary household killer, like in the detective series that the dwellers of the shelter watch in the evenings in the living room. And John didn't know what to do.
[His friends!] he thought. [It's a band. The team.]
John wanted to talk to the rest of the musicians, but he didn't need to: Nance, the bassist for Still Waters, was already raging in the hallway.
"He was treated! Tim was on a methadone program! He cut the doses!" she shouted. Judging by the intermittency of the cries, someone is trying to hold Nance, and she breaks out.
Here is the explanation for the accuracy of the injections: they were made by nurses with sterile disposable syringes in clean treatment rooms. John ran out into the corridor.
"How long ago did he start substitution therapy?"
Nance immediately rushed to John, grabbed his jacket, buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears, repeating "Timmy couldn't."
John stroked her on the back, and the bellboy said:
"A junkie is a junkie. They say one thing, they do another."
John barely had time to intercept Nance, who rushed to the bellboy, fists clenched for a fight.
"Leave that, Nan," said Edwin, the band's frontman. "Tim was a washed-up, and you know it. He chose his own path. And we need to think about where to get a permanent drummer."
"Well, you're a goat!" said Dean, the piper.
"And who constantly insisted that Tim should be replaced?" Edwin replied with anger. "Your dream has come true. Looking for a replacement!"
He went down the corridor. And Nance began to sob on John's shoulder again.
***
Mrs. Hudson looked around Sherlock's living room. As though a tornado has been here. This means Sherlock was packing for a short trip.
The stupid boy rushed off to seek adventure on his brilliant head yet again. Dashing above all else. And common sense is falling under feet first of all.
We must arrange a room for this unfortunate John Watson. It is unlikely that he has money for a London hotel, even the cheapest one.
You can expect anything from Sherlock, but most likely he went after this guy. Mrs. Hudson smiled. Sherlock never gave up for long. Losing his voice is a hard blow, especially since it was Sherlock himself who was to blame, and almost everyone poked him to it with his nose like a puppy who had shit on the carpet.
Still, Sherlock didn't give up.
A good manager never bets on a lame horse. And Mrs. Hudson was the best.
***
John was standing by the cooler in the orphanage's dining room, so lost in thought that he forgot about the tea.
Nance said Still Waters made it to the finals of the Harp of Cernunnos competition. John searched the Internet for information. It was a major achievement for beginning musicians. If the band takes even third place, it is provided with a contract with one of the leading music studios and a solid promotion. But even just appearing on stage was beneficial: no one will be left without a producer. It may not be the coolest star-maker, but one that will raise the band well.
Also, Still Waters has a secret album, which they promised to post on music sites after the competition, they tried to attract as much attention to the new album as possible. The current album was not bad, but without good advertising, it was by no means at the top of sales.
And the death of the drummer, which Edwin spoke about on social networks, accompanied by vows that the band would pay more attention to the anti-drug movement, raised the number of paid auditions quite well.
Nance was furious that Edwin began to promote when Tim's body was not even taken to the morgue, the guitarist and the piper were also angry, but the guys were more and more worried about where to get a drummer, moreover, a permanent one, and not for one or two performances. No one heard Nance's words that Tim could not take a dirty drug, everyone brushed her off and called her a fool in love.
But John asked narcologists on a closed, doctor-only site. And intuitive suspicions received a material basis: Tim's nails. They were sick only at the top but grew up healthy. This is a person who not only cuts down on the drug but also takes vitamins and other restorative drugs.
John himself caught inflammation in the corners of his mouth. When treatment for addiction to drugs starts, it disappears. Nancy said that Tim complained of low energy and dizziness, but not of stomach problems. So, this isn't an exacerbation of gastritis. It's poisoning. Someone was giving Tim poison little by little. Dr. Watson's additional specialty was toxicology, and he could immediately name five poisons available to the layman that give a similar picture of death. Means for washing windows or expelling cockroaches can also be used to eliminate an unnecessary person if you are sure that there will be no normal autopsy.
But what's the point of killing Tim? Competitors did it? Still Waters is by no means among the predicted winners. There is no rivalry for the contract with anyone. No one was trying to seduce Nancy, so jealousy also disappears.
However, Tim is dead. And it wasn't the drugs that killed him.
