221B Recs

Title: In Silence We Take Flight
Author: Aiisling
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 13,627
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Major Character Death (canonical)
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: Sherlock jumps, and from the moment his body hits the pavement, John Watson does not say a word. There is a way to bring Sherlock back from the dead, if John is strong enough-and Moriarty doesn't beat him to it.

A Sherlock fusion fic with Hans Christian Andersen's "Wild Swans."

Reccer's comments: A fairy tale AU for a series set in 21st-century London? Yes! References in Sherlock to the stories collected by the Brothers Grimm and the epic quality of the characters have inspired several authors to set Sherlock in the dark, compelling world of fairy tales. Aiisling has produced a superb example, with a haunting, bittersweet atmosphere, varied pacing, and memorable characters.

John is the primary focus. Unspeaking, grief-stricken, and brave, he is determined to sacrifice what he must to bring Sherlock back to life:
Sherlock was walking down the beach. Naked as he’d been in John’s dreams, pale skin illuminated from within, as the moon, as alabaster beneath a secret light. John stumbled to his feet, nettle leaves and sand tumbling from his lap to pile on the beach. He opened his mouth to speak the name, only stopping himself by slapping a palm against his mouth and pressing hard until his teeth bruised the skin on the inside of his lips. He relished the pain. Sherlock might not have been real but at least John was not dreaming.

Sherlock did not stop until he was standing in front of John, and then he was looking him over with eyes like the channel after a storm, gray green and penetrating, as quick to observe as John remembered. He reached out and took the hand John was not using to keep silent in his own. Ran long fingers over the scarred wreck of John’s skin. His touch was the wind given form; he traced the calloused lines of John’s palm, the gnarls and snags on the pads of John’s fingers, each touch intensified to near pain after months without contact. John shivered. What unblemished skin he had left prickled with goosebumps.

“You have lost much of the feeling in your hands. You may still fire a gun, but you will never practice medicine again.” Sherlock’s voice had not changed save for the fact that it was so quiet. Fresh tears poured down John’s face at the sound of his baritone, turned light, almost insubstantial. It shook John in his bones. He felt broken and yet stronger than he had ever been. “Was it worth it?”

Mrs. Hudson is also beautifully wrought; she has sharp edges and a strength that makes her more than a one-dimensional motherly figure:
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, Mycroft,” she said, her hand tightening. “And then you can tell me what happened with Sherlock.”

The tea kettle was already boiling. She poured three cups, left one steaming on the counter with milk, as John preferred it, and a healthy spiking of lemon and sugar for her Sherlock. The other cups she placed on the table in front of herself and Mycroft. He took his, lifted it to his lips, but did not drink.

“It’s my fault,” he said, and put the cup down with a shaking hand. “I should be punished, but there is no one to do it for me.” Now that John’s gone. He did not say it aloud but they both heard it nevertheless.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him sadly, and reached out to cover his hand with her own. “You are being punished, dear. You don’t get to save him this time. You have to watch and wait, like the rest of us.”

He blinked twice, and a small mean part of her relished the fact that she’d just surprised Mycroft Holmes. Then, with a motherly sigh, she pushed a plate of biscuits closer to him.

“Now. How is that dear assistant of yours?”

As in many a fairy story, what is desired is only won at great personal cost. Nothing will be the same, even if the enchantment is broken. But that does not mean Aiisling's work features unrelieved misery. There is always light in the darkness; a small, fragile candle kept lit by many hands.