New fic - Architectonics
Length - 1,352
A little piece of skull-as-narrator.
My sutures tell a story, if you read them correctly. It’s a bit like a palm, I suppose, or wrinkles in papery skin. Come close, and I’ll whisper it to you.
I suppose staying with him was the only reward I could offer for his work to lay me to rest. The only person I’d allow liberties with my bones. And so here I am, watching over the bleeding red motions of his tumultuous life.
I’m the solid one. Constant. Those tendons and tissues and bloody things he finds are fleeting, only quiet distractions. They bring with them their fragility and once-lived nuances that I don’t care for. I know he doesn’t, either. They’re just experiments, dalliances; he always comes back to me after. He’s more like me than them: thin, webbed skin that barely covers his sharp edges and those beautiful bones. No frivolities.
Fuck. Me. Sideways. Allusive, poetic, gorgeous. I love writing that gives voice to the voiceless, and gives us perspectives we normally ignore, if we see them at all. “If bones could hold jealousy, I suspect I might feel its twinge for the way John and Sherlock arch together, flushmount, for the way Sherlock pulls him unabashedly into our space. But the sweet sound of John’s joints as they fold around him sway me – I could never wish him away. For this, I’m willing to share Sherlock’s intensity.” This is a brilliant gem.