ext_79568 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
the-hobbet.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2012-09-05 07:52 pm
the-hobbet.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2012-09-05 07:52 pm
Entry tags:
Barrow Wight by Pretty Arbitrary (PG)
Fandom: SHERLOCK
Pairing: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes
Length: 5177 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arbitrary_fic
Author Website: A03
Why this must be read:
There is something slightly off - alien, unsettling - about Sherlock Holmes. People often remark that he doesn't seem quite human. Maybe they're right.
"Barrow Wight" evokes the moors of Baskerville in my mind (with maybe a touch of LOTR). A glowing hound wouldn't seem out of place. I love the frisson of strangeness it sends up my back.
What must they have been like, the people who built this place? What did they wear? What did they think? What rites did they give their dead before leaving them behind in the dark? Tombs like this were built for warriors, right? What sorts of wars did they fight? For a flicker of a moment, John can feel a bond of brotherhood stretching back to those ancient men.
But then it's gone and the ancient space is just a curious little burrow again, and John has to laugh at himself. "I think it'd lose its mystique, taken out of context." Rocks and dirt and roots and…no bugs or vermin or any sign of animals, actually, that's a little odd, isn't it…?
"Do you? I don't believe so."
The warmth in the words plucks at John, something like affection or interest, and in the gloom, he feels it back. So they're caught up in children's fancies, but doesn't the place beg for it? The sparks of the man's eyes feel hot against his skin, and John finds himself wondering the same sorts of things about this man that he just did about the long-gone builders of the barrow.
"What's your name?" the man asks suddenly, his voice low and vibrant.
"John Watson," John answers. "What's yours?"
The man smiles broadly rather than answering. His teeth gleam. "John Watson. I'm pleased to meet you."
The syllables are sounded so carefully in that lovely voice, each given its proper attention; John's never heard his name spoken so perfectly. It tugs at him down deep inside, like he's just been spoken to for the first time in his life. Like he's never heard his own name before. The man's eyes are so bright in the torch's cast-off light that they almost seem to glow, the colour of moonlight.
Barrow Wight
Pairing: John Watson & Sherlock Holmes
Length: 5177 words
Author on LJ:
arbitrary_ficAuthor Website: A03
Why this must be read:
There is something slightly off - alien, unsettling - about Sherlock Holmes. People often remark that he doesn't seem quite human. Maybe they're right.
"Barrow Wight" evokes the moors of Baskerville in my mind (with maybe a touch of LOTR). A glowing hound wouldn't seem out of place. I love the frisson of strangeness it sends up my back.
What must they have been like, the people who built this place? What did they wear? What did they think? What rites did they give their dead before leaving them behind in the dark? Tombs like this were built for warriors, right? What sorts of wars did they fight? For a flicker of a moment, John can feel a bond of brotherhood stretching back to those ancient men.
But then it's gone and the ancient space is just a curious little burrow again, and John has to laugh at himself. "I think it'd lose its mystique, taken out of context." Rocks and dirt and roots and…no bugs or vermin or any sign of animals, actually, that's a little odd, isn't it…?
"Do you? I don't believe so."
The warmth in the words plucks at John, something like affection or interest, and in the gloom, he feels it back. So they're caught up in children's fancies, but doesn't the place beg for it? The sparks of the man's eyes feel hot against his skin, and John finds himself wondering the same sorts of things about this man that he just did about the long-gone builders of the barrow.
"What's your name?" the man asks suddenly, his voice low and vibrant.
"John Watson," John answers. "What's yours?"
The man smiles broadly rather than answering. His teeth gleam. "John Watson. I'm pleased to meet you."
The syllables are sounded so carefully in that lovely voice, each given its proper attention; John's never heard his name spoken so perfectly. It tugs at him down deep inside, like he's just been spoken to for the first time in his life. Like he's never heard his own name before. The man's eyes are so bright in the torch's cast-off light that they almost seem to glow, the colour of moonlight.
Barrow Wight