Out of Darkness, Out of Doubt (Sherlock)
Aug. 18th, 2011 08:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morganstuartTitle: Out of Darkness, Out of Doubt
Author: Morgan Stuart
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: This universe does not belong to me; I'm just an appreciative visitor. I make no profit from this fan work.
Description: Sherlock observes more during cases these days than he used to do. Not much cop, this caring lark.
Author's Note: This is the second result from my two-part experiment with the 221b format (221 words, last word beginning with a "b").
Warnings (Highlight to Read): Non-explicit but disturbing description of murders and their crime
Even to Sherlock's dispassionate gaze, the crime scene had been... unexpected.
An ungodly nightmare, a grey-faced Lestrade had called it. John had closed his eyes and swallowed hard before kneeling on gore-slicked tiles beside the dismembered victims.
It was no surprise, then, that Lestrade ended up at 221B, that the three men pondered evidence and devoured related files until late night bled into early morning.
When John finally piled a duvet and pillow on the sofa, telling Lestrade to salvage whatever rest he could, the detective inspector offered no protest.
John yawned his good-nights and stumbled up the steps to his bed.
Wide awake, thrumming with thought, Sherlock turned to his improvised laboratory at the kitchen table.
A short while later, shouts sounded from upstairs.
Orders.
A litany of names. The soldiers who bore them would never heed that desperate summons.
After a final ragged, inarticulate cry came silence.
Asleep on the sofa, Lestrade folded his arms to his chest, tucked tight fists beneath his chin, and frowned.
Softly, he moaned a plaintive call for the one he had loved and wed, buried and mourned. Then, unanswered, he growled out a troubled sigh.
Sherlock remained motionless. Listening. Watching. Bearing witness.
After a time, when all again was still, he nodded to himself and returned to his flasks and beakers.
THE END
Vital Stats: Originally written in August 2011.
The title borrows from the song "Witness" by Sarah McLachlan.
Author: Morgan Stuart
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: This universe does not belong to me; I'm just an appreciative visitor. I make no profit from this fan work.
Description: Sherlock observes more during cases these days than he used to do. Not much cop, this caring lark.
Author's Note: This is the second result from my two-part experiment with the 221b format (221 words, last word beginning with a "b").
Warnings (Highlight to Read): Non-explicit but disturbing description of murders and their crime
Even to Sherlock's dispassionate gaze, the crime scene had been... unexpected.
An ungodly nightmare, a grey-faced Lestrade had called it. John had closed his eyes and swallowed hard before kneeling on gore-slicked tiles beside the dismembered victims.
It was no surprise, then, that Lestrade ended up at 221B, that the three men pondered evidence and devoured related files until late night bled into early morning.
When John finally piled a duvet and pillow on the sofa, telling Lestrade to salvage whatever rest he could, the detective inspector offered no protest.
John yawned his good-nights and stumbled up the steps to his bed.
Wide awake, thrumming with thought, Sherlock turned to his improvised laboratory at the kitchen table.
A short while later, shouts sounded from upstairs.
Orders.
A litany of names. The soldiers who bore them would never heed that desperate summons.
After a final ragged, inarticulate cry came silence.
Asleep on the sofa, Lestrade folded his arms to his chest, tucked tight fists beneath his chin, and frowned.
Softly, he moaned a plaintive call for the one he had loved and wed, buried and mourned. Then, unanswered, he growled out a troubled sigh.
Sherlock remained motionless. Listening. Watching. Bearing witness.
After a time, when all again was still, he nodded to himself and returned to his flasks and beakers.
THE END
Vital Stats: Originally written in August 2011.
The title borrows from the song "Witness" by Sarah McLachlan.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-23 06:35 pm (UTC)What I wish to say --at this particular point-- touches on the topic of what you term "a short shelf life". Not so! The twists and turns of a growing canon will never void of its value any good writing that happened at an earlier stage.
I believe stories (canon and fanon alike) have always developed along the same lines as the species of the living beings: as branches in a bough, pushing out in different directions, splitting into smaller branches, and making good use of all available resources.
In other words, stories (the good ones) are *alive*.
Yours definitely are.
Much thanks!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-23 07:37 pm (UTC)Once again, wise words. I'm grateful for this, truly. Your "branches in a bough" analogy is both beautiful and helpful.
I appreciate your kind words so much. This is very heartening to hear. Thank you for taking the time to comment and encourage me this way!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-23 07:59 pm (UTC)Thank you again
no subject
Date: 2011-08-23 09:24 pm (UTC)