#beyoncesfiancee

I am so proud of this fic.

I don’t throw around “blessed” a lot, but I am lacking a better word. I am blessed, to have @anarfea as a coauthor on this project. I have delved into issues of guilt, accountability, reclamation of power, and forgiveness in ways which I’d never thought I’d be capable. As always, when I take on such deep and troubling subject matter, I have learned things about myself. But this time, I also learned a great deal about writing, and about rewriting, and about disagreements and teamwork and all that stuff you learn when you finally work with people you truly respect. It’s what they try to teach you in group projects in school, but it inevitably fails in that context.

So.

Thank you, Anarfea– and beyoncesfiancee our beta throughout, who taught me a thing or two about fearlessness.

I’m sad it’s almost over. And I hope people read this story and it gives them something to think about. (Or even talk about, because I am always interested in discussing the path we chose with interested readers.)

I was tagged by beyoncesfiancee to do this meme!

Go to page seven of your current WIP, go down to the seventh line, and copy seven sentences.

My current WIP, the one I’ve actually put new words on even in the last 24 hours what, is not yet 7 pages, so here’s a bit from my very old and yet still not posted genderswap Sherlock story that I pulled out and dusted off and added a couple of lines to lately. The first story of the series is more or less ready to post, but the rest are a shambles, so I’ve been holding off. But I might just toss the first out there, anyway, sometime soon.

She does still have a job, as it turns out, and better still, Sam cautiously asks her out for a cup of coffee on her shift break and tells her she’s insane, but —

“You still want to date me?” Jo fills in, with a grin, and he coughs, and shakes his head, and says, “I must be mad.”

“Dinner, tomorrow,” Jo says, impulsively, and he grins at her across the table, hair glinting copper in the afternoon sun and shirt collar open, relaxed. The pulse point at his neck just shows, and Jo remembers how it had pounded in the dark that night. “I’ll try not to get you kidnapped,” she says, like she can control it, and doesn’t say I’ll try not to get you Sherlocked, because she knows that’s something completely outside her influence. He brushes his hand across hers, fingertips on her bruised knuckles, and warmth spreads low in her belly.

“Or tonight,” she says, impulsively, and his grin spreads slow like honey.