Sherlock (BBC) Rec: An Empty Station, by ivywatcher
Here's the weird thing. In HP, I read Snarry and sometimes the occasional Drapery, when it's done right, but nothing else. No other pairings, nothing. Just Snape/Harry. In Sherlock, though, I seem to have a bit of a broader reading range; yeah, I'm probably not going to be reccing Moriarty!fic anytime soon, because - as much as I love Andrew Scott's performance - he creeps the living hell out of me, and I just don't want to know. But, other things... well. So when I see this recced first thing (5:30) this morning, I trot off to read it and discover something truly exquisite.
An Empty Station, by ivywatcher (PG-13, 17k [Gen])
One of the things about fics being written in medias res - while the story is still a living, growing thing and not a thing of the past - is that there's a fresh poignancy to the many different ways writers imagine the effects of events on different characters. In this story, we're treated (and 'treated' is the operative word here) to a look at Lestrade's experience of Sherlock's suicide, from the minute he receives a carefully-worded text informing him that there's been a "Sherlock Emergency" and beseeching him to be there for John, to that moment much later when everything clicks into place in the DI's mind. And since it's told in a non-linear style, jumping from the immediate aftermath to months after the event to the funeral, and so on, we're given a visceral experience of the way that Lestrade is processing all of the information he gets - we are him, trying to make sense of things that are just out of his grasp; it's a device that works beautifully.
But, above and beyond what I love about how Lestrade is rendered in the story, what I especially like here - and, yes, my biases and current obsessions (John Watson screencaps, anyone?) are absolutely showing - is how skillfully the author makes John's pain a completely physical thing. I wrote a craptastic little ficlet the other day that attempted to do this (and, no, truly, it's clearly the work of someone who's just getting their feet wet), and so I know whereof I speak when I say that this story gets it right. Angry and devastated in his own right, Lestrade sees John (and I have I mentioned my penchant for 3rd-person POV? Because, yes) in and through different stages of mourning - the devastating, crippling loss of those first few hours, when it's all John can do to remain upright while slumped against the wall outside the morgue at St. Barts, and, later, when he realizes that Sherlock is well and truly gone; and then, later, when he begins to show glimmers of the man he'd been before. It's a gorgeous character study - come for Lestrade, but stay for John (and Mycroft and Sally, all of whom are given their due here). Lovely.
The whole world is leeching gray, starting from where John Watson sits before him, staring into space, utterly still.
âIs...â Lestrade doesn't recognize his own voice. He clears his throat and tries again. âIs he...â
There are a thousand ways he wants to finish that sentence.Inside, he thinks.Inside talking to Molly. Inside getting stitches put into his head from a stupid bout of heroics. Inside having a laugh at our expense, the prat. Inside, but fine, just a bit of a close one, hey guys.
John blinks heavily. His head moves as if has weights attached; it pivots on his neck just enough to see Lestrade. His eyes are too shiny, and his pupils aren't moving properly.
This is not John Watson. It's a hollow thing wearing his face.
Lestrade shudders down to his toes. âJohn,â he says, helplessly.
John blinks again, and shakes his head. âSh...â it's a soft noise, pressed out between his closed lips, like it hurts him. Lestrade takes a few steps closer. John's eyes focus enough to track his movement, and his eyes land on Lestrade's at last. âSherlock,â John says.
And that's the end of it.
âOh, God.â The world goes dizzy around him. Lestrade's knees hit the floor and the pain shoots through him. His forehead bumps against the wall by John's shoulder. âWhatâhow didââ
John makes a pained noise, like someone's shot him. He starts to pitch forward, curling in on himself. Lestrade just manages to prop him up with a shoulder, pushes until John's pressed upright between Lestrade's arm across his chest and the wall at his back. âYou're concussed,â Lestrade says.
Obvious, Sherlock's voice replies in his head, and it's a surprising comfort.
And if you enjoy this, please give the author some love. It goes such a long way.
