Length: 755 words
Author's summary: Hwaet! I sing of those immortal heroes: The Tall Detective and The Shorter Man.
Now tall Sherlock, called the genius, sees the parsley in the butter,
cries Oh! and soon declares the answer. He knows the killer, has deduced it;
and John Watson, called the doctor, whose gun is sure, whose hands are steady,
cries to him in admiration, hails him Brilliant and Fantastic.
Reccer's remarks: Merripestin has been recced here before, and with good reason, what with the splendid writing and the general versatility. "Now advance they" absolutely slays me, and it may slay you too if you meet either of the following conditions: (1) you have ever studied Old English and/or Old Norse poetry; (2) you have backbuttoned out of one too many fanfics in which Sherlock is referred to as "the taller man"/"the dark-haired detective"/"the tall slender baby deer" and John is "the shorter man"/"the sandy-haired man"/"the clumsy typist." During a sex scene.
Condition 1, if you do not already meet it, may sound like a chore, but take a quick look at this lovely riddle-poem. Yes, this rec reflects an attempt to lure you into not only merripestin's delightful fic/poem/thing but also to one of my favorite literary genres.
Read on the AO3.
Length: 3867 words
Author's summary: Tourists Mike Stamford and John Watson literally blow into a Southern town where the only place not ravaged by tornadoes is a diner; behind the counter is a cook who deduces how customers like their hash browns before they order.
Reccer's remarks: People, this is the Waffle House AU you didn't know you needed. There are indeed tornadoes, John is a terrible driver, Sally the waitress calls the cook a freak, Molly the other waitress takes off her hairnet to no avail, and Mike Stamford needs to go to Georgia, but not the way you think. TW for atrocious puns and general lunacy.
John stared, mouth open. “That was amazing!”
“Do you think so?” asked the man.
“Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”
“That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do they normally say?”
The man’s voice fell to an angry drawl, “Fuck you, Pretty Boy!”John’s eyebrows rose. “Bit rude. But you are sort of, well, um, that is to say,” he looked at Stamford and then looked down at the menu, “never mind. ..."
Read on the AO3.
Length: 2168 words
Pairing: not really; could be read as pre-slash, and my goggles are firmly attached
Rating: G (author says T, but nah)
Author's summary: After a few months of living with Sherlock, John gets used to the idea that Sherlock can do magic but chooses not to. But every now and then Mycroft will stop by and John will feel the teakettle lean towards him, or Anderson will get so annoyed that little flashes spark between his fingers and his tech, and John will wonder again why he never sees Sherlock display anything but the purest disinterest. [Your reccer, who edits for a living, itches to change that "disinterest" to "indifference."]
Reccer's remarks: You might expect (John Watson might expect) that if someone with Sherlock Holmes's intelligence, passion for knowledge, and demonstrated devotion to his own brilliance had magical powers, he would use them constantly, until everyone around him was sick of the showing-off. Right? But no; Sherlock won't so much as sing a mug out of a cupboard he can't reach.
This lovely brief story explains why, and in doing so delivers some clever and efficient world-building as well as an affecting look into how much John matters to Sherlock. Take a moment to let the title sink in after you're done reading.
"Song of a Good Man" is set in an S1/post-S1 space and alludes to the first three episodes, but you need not fear any tedious recaps.
Excerpt: Odd, to walk through the streets of London and not catch the pale blue flashes of walls going up and down as soldiers and enemies move; odd to see people walking quickly without adding an extra jolt to their speed with magic-driven boosters or jumping into fusion magic/gasoline vehicles. Odd to look at a hastily-constructed force wall surrounding a classroom in a deserted college and know, deep in one's bones, that it's not good enough to stop a bullet.
Read on the AO3.