madimpossibledreamer

v  Theory of Narrative Casuality (Source: Livejournal)

Ø  https://falling-voices.livejournal.com/18100.html

Ø  Sherlock

Ø  Sherlock/John

Ø  Marked as NC-17, though that largely depends on whether you click on all links and/or actually read the relevant fanfic in the fanfic…it’ll make sense, you’ll see.

The formatting blew my mind.  The idea of using tumblr or email or chat or BUTTONS (some of which work) to tell a story I found incredible.  Even further, most of the blogs ACTUALLY EXIST AND ALSO HELP TELL THE FIC.  It’s, like, the evolved form of tumblr rp storytelling (yeah, I lurk, partly because I don’t have time and partly cause I’m intimidated).  It’ll take you forever to dig into this and it must have been a lot of work.  It’s also meta and meta-meta.

             The demon’s face grins and spears him with what feels like molten lava.  “Who better to use as a guinea pig, dear Sherlock?”  Mocking laughter, and Sherlock shivers uncontrollably.  Attempting to get up just results in him flopping on the floor.
             And then there’s another face, a familiar face, and a comforting voice like the smell of jumpers.  “You’re not here,” he rasps.
             “Miracles are possible, Sherlock.  And on that note, don’t you dare die on me, not now.”
             He passes out instead.  It seems the safest of the options.

           “Are you all right?” Sherlock asks, and John shakes his head, transferring his gaze from the window to his friend.
           “Sorry?”  Whatever had been asked, he hadn’t heard.
           Sherlock steeples his fingers, the dissecting gaze like John’s a brand-new puzzle.  “You’ve been acting odd ever since Sally called me a freak.  Again.  You don’t like it when anyone’s rude; a little odd, really, considering I’m likely to be rude myself, but it’s bothering you more than usual.  Why?”
           John works his jaw.  This would be a good time.  And yet…not at all.
           It’s a restaurant.  There are people around.  He can’t be sure Moriarty doesn’t have people here.  He actually can’t be sure that there aren’t bugs or people around or anything anywhere.  And after the pool, he’s fairly certain Moriarty has to be interested in him.
           He doesn’t have the energy for this.  He’s maintaining Right Where I Belong most of the time, now, because he’s paranoid, now.  He doesn’t know how Sherlock hasn’t noticed by now being his usual reckless self hasn’t earned him near enough scrapes or bruises.
           And he’s taken too long to answer, because apparently his face has answered for him, since Sherlock keeps up his interrogation.  “Ah.  You take it personally.  Why?  The company you keep, or…?”
           By now, his face has given away the truth, that it’s more personal than that, and he knows Sherlock deserves to know, is getting restless, can’t wait any longer, and knows also that he wants to tell, being unable to talk about it is tearing him apart, and he’d never thought it’d be this hard.
           But he doesn’t want to lose a friend.  Despite the fact that he already is, that the secret is tearing them apart.  And worse, he doesn’t want to give Moriarty the clue he needs to go find and unlock a Stand.
           So he bites his lip.  Maybe he can give Sherlock clues.  Lead him into the correct answer, hope Moriarty doesn’t get there first.  “Remember our conversation about monsters.”
           “What kind of evidence could lead a man like you to believe he’s a monster?” Sherlock’s incredulous.
           “Obviously, the persuasive kind,” John whispers.

            Sherlock picks up his phone.  It’s about time John called.  He could hardly shop for more food without his wallet; forgotten in his room; John’s been forgetful lately; John’s worried about something.  Moriarty, probably.  Something happened during the kidnapping; something he didn’t feel he could tell Sherlock.  Why?  Because he was worried about how Sherlock would react?  Worried that he’d try to take revenge?  But no, there was a secret; something John didn’t want Sherlock to know; something that Mycroft knows about John that he doesn’t; how?  Obvious, contacts.  Not worth his time, not like John.  All these signs John is normal, average, and yet—
            And yet, he’s sympathetic.  Like he understands, how?  How would John know?  There’s the obvious answer, of course, his sister, homosexual, him having to protect her; doesn’t approve of her drinking, liked the wife, but he’d hardly stand for bullies going after his sister; but it’s not that, it can’t be; Mycroft wouldn’t know if that was it, he could be cruel and pretend he knows something, but that doesn’t explain John; John, who wants to explain, but doesn’t know how, John who thinks he of all people won’t believe—
            The phone rings.  He picks it up.  “Sherlock.”
            The singsong voice on the other end is unexpected, unwanted.  But then, he’d known Moriarty would survive.  “There’s something about John…he’s keeping secrets.  I could help you find out.”
            “Piss off.”  He hangs up before he realizes that was…that was emotional, that was wrong.  Moriarty could have John.  That could have been a subtle taunt.  And he just threw away a lead, though of course Moriarty wouldn’t have let him trace the call.  Still, he was Sherlock; he was better; he could have heard a train or some other clue to help him save John—
            He frets until John returns, and then unfortunately yells at him.  Both of them are being wound tighter and tighter, and it has to have an end.

                He reads others.  Often, they don’t even care, or regard it as useful, hungry, prying eyes willing to try to poach him from the Templars.
                And then he meets John.  John of the assault rifle, John of the healing touch.
                He’d met him, unassuming, beige jumper.  Reads that he was a soldier, Afghanistan or Iraq, but he’s so pleasant, projecting anything but a dangerous air, that he doesn’t realize how dangerous the man could be.  Just a simple brushing by in Agartha, as he’s on his way to the Archives, the books that the Council of Venice will still allow him access, that is.  He takes in the blond, short, limping man and dismisses him.
                It’s not often that Sherlock Holmes makes a mistake.  But it does happen.
                The next time, it’s a meeting between factions, moderated by the Council.  He assumes John is Templar like him, is annoyed that he’s not trusted on his own but understands why.  He’s glaring at the Illuminati, all but baring his teeth as they squabble through words that, with enough intent behind them, could probably rip out throats with magic.  (After learning the Bee-touched can’t die normally, he’s been tempted more than once just to kill another agent for annoyance, since it won’t stick anyway.)  There are others there, but none of them matter.
                John clears his throat.  Somehow, he’s able to immediately draw all the attention in the room, as well as get their argument to dry up like they’ve suddenly lost the ability to speak.  Given the world they live in, it’s not an altogether ludicrous thought.
                It’s John that outlines the plan, a different one than either Sherlock or the Illuminati had proposed, and…it’s not actually half bad.  The soldier has a gift for strategy.  Captain, then.  Could have risen further, didn’t want to.  Enjoys looking out for a small, family like unit.  Replacement for a never-quite functional family, then.  Probably the brother, given the evidence of the phone.  And always had that unassuming air.  People dismiss him, and he uses that as a weapon just like anything else, when needed.
                It’s difficult, getting on with the Illuminati.  He keeps wanting to point out that Sally is hardly just with the man, but John actually manages to get him to keep his tongue civil, and when explaining how the magical artifact they’re going after works, he keeps saying “Amazing” with wonder in his eyes.  It’s almost painful to part at the end, once they’ve deposited the artifact with the Council (it’s the only place they can agree upon).
                John is a little bit like the Secret World, actually.  Sherlock’s gotten to the point where he understands most of the rules.  In the end, though, no matter how banal, commonplace some of it has become (zombies are almost boring, now), it still manages to surprise him enough to keep him not-bored.

            “John.  You were lying in bed with a fever, unable to discern the world around you.  There is no logical reason why you could have saved your unit.”

            John’s bleary eyes finally focus on Sherlock’s face.  It’s good, this.  That Citizen/Soldier has decided that his brilliantly impossible flatmate is forever off the hit list, so he doesn’t accidentally summon him and bomb the flat when being awoken.  Really, in all honestly, for a Stand User with his sorts of nightmares, there is no other flatmate he could have possibly gotten.

            “So you shouldn’t be feeling any guilt now.”

            If John isn’t mistaken, that’s actual emotion in the detective’s voice.

            “No logical reason, no,” John agrees quietly.  Sherlock’s absolutely rubbish at comfort, which is perhaps why it works.  “Thank you, Sherlock.”