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crack_van2012-09-26 11:03 pm
the-hobbet.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2012-09-26 11:03 pm
Entry tags:
Stranger at the Gate by bendingsignpost (explicit)
Fandom: SHERLOCK BBC
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Length: 85190 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bendingsignpost
Author Website: songlin on AO3
Why this must be read:
This is the last in my trio of vampire fics for this time around. I wouldn't normally rec the same author twice in a month, but this story is so outstanding and so different from bendingsignpost's other vampire AU that I couldn't pass it up.
Stranger at the Gate offers a beautifully realized world in which vampires are not supernatural, but a part of the natural world. Sherlock comes from the South where they have an accepted role in the culture but he needs to travel to a fortified city where anyone entering is subjected to a test to expose vampires. John is the guard at the gate who offers Sherlock a kindness. What develops is at times disturbing, at times lovely, often thrilling, and ultimately everything a fan could want. Don't miss it.
The plan, when it develops, is devastatingly simple. A likely scenario to get him to John's femoral artery, a mask of glamour, and all consequences taken care of. Famished though he is, he won't drink enough to compromise himself. The transition into true adulthood requires quarts. A mere half pint or so ought to cause little more than stirrings.
He doesn't mean to think of the plan. He hardly wants to enact it. If John's hand weren't upon his own thigh, the human's thumb rubbing slow circles above his femoral artery, Sherlock's mind would have never made the leap. If there were space between them, if John were not so close with skin as warm as his smile, Sherlock might have entertained some internal debate.
As he lets his pipe cool, they talk. John has questions, so many questions, and the more Sherlock answers, the more entranced the gatekeeper becomes. For something so easy, it's immensely satisfying. This is nothing special, only the result of books and time, nothing close to any of Sherlock's true skills.
It doesn't make the way John looks at him any less... distinctive.
People have looked at Sherlock this way before, humans as well. Sherlock has learned to ignore it lest it rile his guardian, but Angelo isn't here. In his snug gatehouse, John is too close not to notice, just as he's too responsive not to study. John looks at his hands and his mouth the way Sherlock looks at exquisite paintings.
The fire settles and they watch one another.
Sherlock cleans his pipe and John watches this as well.
His pipe returns to its place in his satchel, next to the tobacco pouch.
"Sleep?" John asks, standing.
The human is on alert in the near-dark. The unsteady light reveals the tension in his frame. A guard, a soldier, and all the instincts that come with that training: does he suspect?
"If you like," Sherlock replies. He doesn't stand. Instead, he performs an action he's seen in tavern after tavern, inn after inn.
He lowers his gaze.
Down the shadowed hollow of throat, down the coarse shirt, down past the burnished belt buckle and no farther.
He lifts his gaze along the same line.
Another glimpse of tongue. More interesting by far is John's chest, the slight yet rapid movements of shallow breathing. He's like a bird summoned to the wrist.
Stranger at the Gate
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Length: 85190 words
Author on LJ:
bendingsignpost Author Website: songlin on AO3
Why this must be read:
This is the last in my trio of vampire fics for this time around. I wouldn't normally rec the same author twice in a month, but this story is so outstanding and so different from bendingsignpost's other vampire AU that I couldn't pass it up.
Stranger at the Gate offers a beautifully realized world in which vampires are not supernatural, but a part of the natural world. Sherlock comes from the South where they have an accepted role in the culture but he needs to travel to a fortified city where anyone entering is subjected to a test to expose vampires. John is the guard at the gate who offers Sherlock a kindness. What develops is at times disturbing, at times lovely, often thrilling, and ultimately everything a fan could want. Don't miss it.
The plan, when it develops, is devastatingly simple. A likely scenario to get him to John's femoral artery, a mask of glamour, and all consequences taken care of. Famished though he is, he won't drink enough to compromise himself. The transition into true adulthood requires quarts. A mere half pint or so ought to cause little more than stirrings.
He doesn't mean to think of the plan. He hardly wants to enact it. If John's hand weren't upon his own thigh, the human's thumb rubbing slow circles above his femoral artery, Sherlock's mind would have never made the leap. If there were space between them, if John were not so close with skin as warm as his smile, Sherlock might have entertained some internal debate.
As he lets his pipe cool, they talk. John has questions, so many questions, and the more Sherlock answers, the more entranced the gatekeeper becomes. For something so easy, it's immensely satisfying. This is nothing special, only the result of books and time, nothing close to any of Sherlock's true skills.
It doesn't make the way John looks at him any less... distinctive.
People have looked at Sherlock this way before, humans as well. Sherlock has learned to ignore it lest it rile his guardian, but Angelo isn't here. In his snug gatehouse, John is too close not to notice, just as he's too responsive not to study. John looks at his hands and his mouth the way Sherlock looks at exquisite paintings.
The fire settles and they watch one another.
Sherlock cleans his pipe and John watches this as well.
His pipe returns to its place in his satchel, next to the tobacco pouch.
"Sleep?" John asks, standing.
The human is on alert in the near-dark. The unsteady light reveals the tension in his frame. A guard, a soldier, and all the instincts that come with that training: does he suspect?
"If you like," Sherlock replies. He doesn't stand. Instead, he performs an action he's seen in tavern after tavern, inn after inn.
He lowers his gaze.
Down the shadowed hollow of throat, down the coarse shirt, down past the burnished belt buckle and no farther.
He lifts his gaze along the same line.
Another glimpse of tongue. More interesting by far is John's chest, the slight yet rapid movements of shallow breathing. He's like a bird summoned to the wrist.
Stranger at the Gate