Sherlock Fic: If You Should Die Before You Wake, Chapter 2 of ?

[pipmer1]

Chapter 1: So It Begins

Title: If You Should Die Before You Wake, Chapter 2 of ?
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers: for the entire show
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3492 this part, 8960 so far
Genre: Drama, angst, epic Sherlock/John friendship. 
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Hiatus/Empty House fic. This is how I see episode 1 of season 3 playing out. What happens to Sherlock and John in the time between Sherlock's Fall and his return? Expect lots of angst.

A/N:  I can't begin to express my gratitude to the beta/britpickers who helped with this chapter: fawsley, susako, holyfant, and nepthys_uk. Couldn't have done it without you, darlings!

I realise a lot of fics write Molly as a doctor. I wrote her as a lab technician, because on the Sherlock page of the BBC website, that's how she's described in her character profile.

Fair warning: This is shaping up to be quite a long fic. I tend to be quite a slow writer in the sense that I agonise endlessly over my writing before I work up the courage to post. I therefore can't anticipate how regular my updates will be. That being said, never fear, this fic will at no time be in danger of being abandoned.

To those of you who are anticipating the resolution of what I set up in the prologue: I wrote this fic to mirror the format of the Reichenbach Fall episode. That is, the prologue is meant to take place before the opening credits, then the narrative flashes backward in time to tell the story from the Fall and working its way forward. It will take awhile to get back to injured!John and vengeful!Sherlock, but we will get there eventually. I hope this doesn't unduly disappoint anyone; if it's any consolation, there will be angst galore, and plenty of other forms of hurt/comfort. I do hope you'll stick with me :)

Chapter 2:  Step by Step


The two men stared at each other for several heartbeats. One stood rigid and anxious, arms twitching at his sides, stance erratically shifting from one foot to the other. One leaned back in his chair, perfectly relaxed, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, only the barest hint of emotion flickering behind the icy, shuttered gaze. As expected, the doctor broke eye contact first.

"So," Mycroft intoned, "you and Miss Molly Hooper, partners in the crime of aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law. Good acting on both your parts, I must admit."

He rose from his seat and slowly walked towards his visitor. "Of course, Miss Hooper is always fidgety and nervous, so that sort of behaviour wouldn't trigger any alarms with the wrong people."

He circled Mike, continuing his monologue. "She was suitably distraught at the memorial, which would make sense, since she was probably eaten up with guilt over the whole mess, especially the deception of Dr. Watson."

Mike flinched at the mention of John's name. He scanned the room, eyes darting from one corner to the next.

"Don't be absurd, Dr. Stamford, this room is completely secure. There are no bugs or cameras in here; there's no further need for ridiculous attempts at subterfuge." Mycroft stopped in front of Mike and held out his hand.

Some of the anxiety drained its way out of Mike's features. He managed a tiny quirk of his lips as he handed over the plastic bag that he had been gripping in his right hand. A bag that contained all of the personal effects of Sherlock Holmes, including his coat, scarf and the clothes he had been wearing at the time of his … suicide? Sacrifice?

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Thank you, Dr. Stamford. Care to tell me why you're really here? I'm sure it wasn't to return Sherlock's possessions to me."

"Mike, please, Mr. Holmes."

"Well then, we mustn't stand on ceremony. Do call me Mycroft."

Mike cleared his throat. "Of course, Mycroft."

Mycroft walked over to his filing cabinet and placed the plastic bag on top of it. Turning, he gestured to the decanter of cognac sitting on top of the book shelf. "Shall we? Please, sit."

Mike nodded, relief evident as the tension left his shoulders. He fell into rather than sat on the chair Mycroft had indicated, looking like a man who still wasn't quite sure of his reception. He let himself sink into the rich, well-worn leather upholstery as it moulded itself to his body. His eyes skittishly roamed the rest of the room, taking in the fact that his chair's deep burgundy colour was well-matched with Mycroft's mahogany desk and plush hunter-green carpet. The office suited the man in its elegance and simplicity, an obvious contrast to Sherlock's untidy, bohemian flat.

"I'm not angry with you, Mike," Mycroft assured him as he poured two drinks, turning to hand one to his visitor. "I'm not even angry with Sherlock. I've already deduced his reasons and the most probable chain of events. His friends were somehow threatened, and the only way to keep them safe was to fake his death. I received an email from him this morning, asking for help; I responded, and an hour later, here you are. I assume you're here to fill me in on the parts I haven't worked out, and on what needs to be done now?"

Mike nodded, swirling his snifter of amber liquid. "It's all there on the phone, when you eventually crack it, but yes. Essentially, three snipers were in place to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and John if Sherlock didn't jump, cementing the impression that he killed himself after being unmasked as a fraud. Moriarty's plan, as you knew already, was to ruin Sherlock's reputation. What you may not have known is that he planned to force him to die in disgrace."

Mike took a large gulp of his drink, swallowing painfully around the lump in his throat. His hand shook slightly as he continued his narrative. "Sherlock was two steps ahead of him the entire time and figured out what his agenda was, so he came to Molly for help in setting up a plan. It was only to be used as a last resort, since the odds for survival were nowhere near one-hundred per cent. And you know how Sherlock never likes to leave anything to chance."

Mike continued, explaining all the ways in which Molly had proven indispensable, from arranging the phone call about Mrs. Hudson, to opening up Bart's lab for Sherlock to hide out in that night, to providing Sherlock with a drug so that his muscles were relaxed enough to allow him to survive a six-story fall into a lorry. The only thing Molly couldn't provide was an actual autopsy with official documentation, since she was a lab technician, not a doctor, so she had approached Mike for help in that regard. Of course, the more people who knew the secret, the higher the risk for it all going wrong, but it couldn't be helped. Time had been of the essence, a commodity that Sherlock had run out of.

And now, Sherlock's priority was to identify, track down, and eliminate the threats to his friends' lives. That wouldn't be enough, though; it wouldn't be safe for Sherlock to return until all the tangled threads of Moriarty's web had been unravelled. The proof of his innocence needed to be withheld for a time, as Sherlock had requested, so that anybody who was sniffing around would be convinced that Sherlock had been totally and utterly destroyed.

Mycroft stood at the window, thoughtfully gazing outward and sipping his drink as Mike's voice trailed off. His forehead was pinched in concentration as he slowly turned to pin Mike with his stare, deciding to give voice to the question that had been niggling at the back of his mind ever since his epiphany of three weeks ago.

"Sherlock evidently had time to set a plan in motion to circumvent Moriarty's objective. He obviously entrusted certain people to help him with this plan. Why wasn't Dr. Watson one of them?"

Mike stared at Mycroft as if he has just sprouted a second head. His left hand had a death grip on the chair's arm; his right thumb betrayed his agitation by twitching and rubbing against his index finger.

"Really, Mycroft? You have to ask that? John would never be content to stay behind and play the grieving best friend. He would insist on being on the front lines; he would never let Sherlock take on this task alone. He'd insist on following him, as he always has."

"And why would that be a bad thing?"

"Because it would completely defeat the purpose of why Sherlock is doing this in the first place: to keep him safe."

"John Watson has never asked to be kept safe."

After a very pregnant pause, Mycroft continued. "So, what specifically does my brother need from me now?"

Mike told him.

---

Sherlock remembered the conversation as if it were yesterday.

"Liberty in death, isn't that the expression? The only true freedom?"

It certainly was that. Now that he was 'dead', Sherlock was no longer seen as a threat. Not only could he go after the snipers, he had the perfect opportunity – the 'freedom' – to go after the rest of Moriarty's network as well and bring it crashing down, permanently. Even with Moriarty dead, Sherlock could still beat him. This was the ultimate game, with enough intrigue and complexity to keep him occupied for months. It should have been exciting and glorious.

But for some reason that irritatingly eluded Sherlock, it wasn't.

Sherlock rubbed at the spot on his chest that had been aching lately for no apparent reason. There was something… missing, but that wasn't quite right. He had never needed or lacked for anything before, so what was happening? Why was there this feeling that something was… gone?

Apparently, the loss of something wasn't the same as the absence of it. Not at all.

His brother had been right; caring was not an advantage.

Caring had put John front and centre in the war between Sherlock and Moriarty. Caring had made it necessary to put John's life ahead of his own. Caring had resulted in Sherlock being on the run, having lost everything that was of importance… his reputation, his work, his home. His friend.

Sherlock's mind unwillingly flew back to almost two years ago. The smell of chlorine, the soft lapping of water, the blue sheen of the pool. Such an innocuous setting in which to meet one's arch-nemesis. A setting that had turned out to be anything but. A setting that had almost resulted in John's death. Well, his own as well, of course, but Sherlock had never really been interested in his own safety. He was a man who had, after all, almost taken a poisoned pill just to prove he was clever. And he usually wasn't all that concerned about John's safety, either. Usually.

Then he saw what was wrapped around John's torso as he parted the sides of his parka. Then Moriarty stepped out from the shadows and started talking about burning Sherlock's heart out. Then, Moriarty stepped outside and Sherlock stepped towards John and Sherlock shakily demanded to know if John was alright and Sherlock threw the semtex vest across the floor and …

And Sherlock couldn't control his shaking hands, couldn't stop rubbing a gun with the safety off against his head, couldn't even speak a coherent sentence as he tried to express his gratitude …

All of which proved… what, exactly? What did it prove? Sherlock didn't have the faintest.

Which brought him back to his current predicament.

He had already stayed in London for far longer than was safe. Months had been spent on determining the identities of the three snipers, and while that had been imperative, there were other strands to the web that needed to be chased down as well. As it was, two of the assassins - Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's - had relocated to America weeks ago, finally convinced that both his life and reputation had been utterly destroyed. He should have followed them and dealt with them then. But he had been fixated on trying to pin down John's sniper. All traces and evidence of the man had been erased, and it infuriated Sherlock to no end. He had no idea if Moran was still in London or not, but he felt a compelling need to get rid of this threat before proceeding to the next step in his plan.

Why? Why was it the fact that this sniper's gun had been trained on John, on John rather than on Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, that determined how important it was for that particular one of the three to be eliminated?

This was unacceptable. He needed to focus on the other threads to the web, not just on Moran. There was no reason for him to tarry, beyond mere sentiment. He had already risked too much by appearing at his graveside not once, but twice. The Homeless Network had been instructed to keep an eye on things during his absence, and of course Mycroft would continue the surveillance until everything was completed. There was no reason, absolutely none, for him to remain in London.

Yet here he was.

Sherlock continued standing in the shadows of the pub, rain dripping off his hat into his eyes. He shivered as the wetness seeped into his inadequate jacket, but he made no effort to move away from the window and seek shelter. His gazed was fixed on two men sitting in a corner booth, pints set in front of them. It looked like they had been there awhile, from the obvious look of slight inebriation that surrounded them (glazed eyes, uncoordinated hand movements, leaning too far into each other's personal space) and from the lack of tension in the set of their shoulders showing that the stresses of the day had had a chance to dissipate. He wondered what they were talking about.

Time passed without him being aware of it, a fact which was scary in its own right. Finally, Sherlock turned and headed to the pickup point where he would retrieve the documents needed for the next phase of his journey. If some of the moisture on his face seemed to contain a higher salt content than was typical for rain, he paid it no mind and continued on his way.

---

John and Greg agreed to meet at The Raven's Head at eight for drinks. Both were numb and a bit shell-shocked after learning that Sherlock Holmes had fallen to his death in order to save their lives. They decided that getting pissed in each other's company was the logical reaction to the news, so here they were. Greg was on his fourth glass of Guinness, John his third.

How do you feel anything but gratitude when your life has been saved? How do you feel anything but guilt knowing you were responsible for another person's death?

"Sherlock Holmes… was a good man," Greg pronounced, words slightly slurring, beer sloshing from his glass as he made his point by slamming it down onto the table.

"The best," John agreed, lifting his drink in a clumsy salute. "The best I've ever known. I told that to his grave, y'know… before I even knew why. Why he did it."

"Why would you say that before?"

"Because he was. He cured my limp and my tremor, and he gave me a purpose."

Greg nodded as he took another swig. "Yeah? What purpose was that?"

"To make a difference. To be useful again. He gave me that. I met him exactly when I needed to. Did I ever tell you what I was planning to do, that day we met? Or rather, the night of the day we met?"

Greg shook his head, eyes wide. "No, what?"

John stared into his glass for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "If Mike hadn't called out to me, and introduced me to Sherlock that day… I was going to go home, take out my gun, and…" He didn't need to complete the sentence for Greg to understand.

"Jesus, John!" Greg looked slightly horrified. Then his eyes softened, and he asked gently, "Did Sherlock know? The difference he made in your life?"

John gave a sad smile. "No. I never told him. Well, I told his grave, but that's not the same thing, now, is it? Do you see?"

John reached out his hand and clamped it around Greg's wrist. "This is the second time that he's saved my life. I already owed him a debt I can never repay, and now… Christ, Greg, what do I do now? What can I possibly do to make sure what he did was worth it?"

Greg shrugged. "Live, I suppose. That's the only thing we can do, isn't it?"

"I loved him."

Greg raised one eyebrow and locked his eyes with John's, trying to read the man's meaning by peering into his soul.

John rolled his eyes, completely resigned to this sort of reaction. "Not like that. Not at all like that. I'm not gay, and he wasn't interested in that sort of thing. But that doesn't make it any less true. I loved him more than I ever loved anyone who wasn't family. I'm not sure how he felt about me, to be honest. I don't know how he viewed friendship, or how big a part I actually played in his life. But none of that matters. Apparently I was important enough to die for." His grip tightened around his glass, threatening to crack it.

"Apparently, we all were," Greg replied. "Makes you wonder, though, doesn't it? Why Sherlock's brother wasn't included in the list?"

John's jaw clenched. "I know exactly why. His brother's the reason Sherlock's dead."

"How do you mean?"

"Mycroft was the one who betrayed Sherlock; he's the one who gave Moriarty his personal information and gave him the leverage he needed to bring Sherlock down. Of course, he never intended it to go that far, but the fact remains that he sold out his own brother."

Greg frowned at that. "Are you sure, John? Mycroft is far from stupid. I can't believe that he wouldn't know what the ramifications were for giving out that information. He knew what Moriarty was capable of."'

John tilted his chin defiantly. "I'm sure. He told me himself."

"That doesn't make any sense," Greg scowled.

"It makes perfect sense to me! Mycroft is a cold-hearted bastard who doesn't care who gets hurt as long as his agenda is served. It didn't even do any good; he never got the information he wanted, and Moriarty was free to destroy Sherlock in every way he could. And he did, in the end."

John blinked back the tears that were rapidly forming. "I'll never forgive him for that. Never."

Greg looked away, giving John the brief privacy he needed to pull himself together. "Then you shouldn't," he murmured.

Silence fell for a while after that, each man lost in his own thoughts. It was only as John raised his head to speak again that he noticed a slight movement in the corner of his eye. He turned his head slightly, just making out the indistinct shape of someone standing by the window outside. He opened his mouth to say something clever about peeping-toms, but an instant later, the figure was gone.

Later, John would wonder if he even saw it at all.

---

Holmes's name had been cleared. His reputation restored, his legacy once again intact. He didn't think that had been according to his Boss's plan.

At least he was still dead. That was something to be grateful for. And Jim was still dead too; it wasn't like he would care.

Sebastian threw the newspaper across the room in agitation. He leaned forward until his elbows were on his knees and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. His legs continued their restless bouncing movement in counterpoint to his racing thoughts. What to do, what to do now…

He leaned back in his chair and let out a big sigh. Seeing John Watson a week ago had unsettled him in the extreme. He'd surprised himself with the intensity of emotion he felt after laying eyes on the man he had been instructed to kill all those months ago. It would have served Holmes right, to look on as his best friend's brains were blown out right in front of him. It wasn't fair that he had got away with just killing himself. What kind of pain can follow one into death? Jim had miscalculated. The death of Watson would have served to burn Sherlock more thoroughly than his own death or disgrace ever could.

Well, no use whinging about things now. The only thing to be done was to move forward; to follow the instructions Jim had left him in an encrypted, time-delayed email he had received after the events on that day. He had been told to remain in London for at least six months; when he deemed the time to be right, he was to move on to Melbourne, where he would take over the reins of the Organisation and continue the Work. If any whiff of something fishy concerning Holmes were to ever surface, then certain steps would be enacted; until then, the operation was to be considered closed. The objective had been achieved, unless new evidence arose to the contrary. Time to move on.

Sebastian curled his lip as he unfurled himself from the chair and strode over to the red-walnut roll-top desk in the centre of the room. He wrenched open the top left drawer and grabbed the photograph that was lying on top of all his unpaid bills. He took a moment to drink in the features of the man whose picture had been sent to him a lifetime ago, and then thrust it into a plain brown envelope. An envelope that would travel with him wherever his missions led him from now on.

It always paid to be prepared. If he ever stumbled across anything that would even remotely suggest that Holmes was still alive, he would drop everything and proceed to make him wish that he weren't. He would pay him back for so thoroughly mesmerising his best friend that Jim was willing to off himself just to make sure that he won the game.

So Sebastian took the envelope containing the photograph of John Watson, and placed it in the flap of the suitcase he would be packing for the next leg of his journey. Call it an obsession, call it sadomasochism, but he never again wanted to lose the red-hot festering in his belly reminding him of his loss and the reason for it.



Additional A/N:  Feedback is like air to me. If you've read this far, please tell me what you liked or, conversely, what you didn't like. If I don't hear from you guys, I won't know if I'm on the right track or if I need improvement. Thank you so much for reading!

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

I am extremely disappointed that it will be a very long time before we return to seriously!injured!John and protective!vengeful!Sherlock. The prologue is what instantly drew me to the fic, your ability to perfectly encompass those feelings of Sherlocks, the wait for John to awake and the comfort to come.

I'm disappointed because RF fics have been done...hundreds? Of times. Hundreds of theories, hundreds of Sherlocks quest to break the web...hundreds of Johns mental state during Sherlocks death.

But I'd never read one as the prologue had led me to believe this fic to be. Thank god it didn't seem to be some reunion story where Sherlock is some "shell" of himself(which I've never found plausible in any way). Or a story where the Fall is hashed out while characters languish and lie amongst Sherlock's "death"

It seemed to be a story of consequences. Of leaving the "how I got here" far less important then "I'm here now"

So. Yes. I'm disappointed. Because the prologue grabbed me...and from reviews it's what grabbed everyone.

You have amazing writing talent. I will continue to read this....but only so I can get back to what the prologue seemed to promise.

So...in the end. I'm crushed that this is yet another RF "theory" story from the moment the fall happened. But I have that promise(I hope) of the prologue and I have the unquestioned talent of your writing.

[ridingfledge.livejournal.com]

I don't know what to say. I love your writing. I love that your characters are true to the show. I love that I can see and feel and hear what is happening.

But the prologue now seems like some enormous joke. Like: here's what I could have written, this stunning and unique story.... But it's not. You have to wait for what made you want to follow this story. Filler, filler, filler!!

But, as anon above said, your talent outshines so many of the "writers" that have been infecting the Sherlock fandom. So. I'll read. But I am a bit angry because your prologue introduced such a brilliant story, it's what I wanted to read.

Sure I love angst. But John angsting over sherlock's death while others fret over him and sherlock sustaining injuries and having "nightmares" because of "what he's going through" has become trope. Your prologue promised non-trope.

As anon above said, I will continue to check this story, I might even read but it's only so I can get to what made my heart jump into my throat in the prologue.

As another anon said in the wonderful prologue: Sherlock H/C is a dime a dozen. And the unfortunate trend is to have John injured but then that all be overshadowed because Sherlock is "havimg emotions" pr sherlock sustains a minor injury so it's all "well, John is bleeding to dealth...but who the fuck cares? Sherlock is upset."

You changed that. John was the focus. The focus in everything. His injuries were the reason Sherlock moved Sherlock felt...and it was't cause for the tide to change so people could feel sorry for Wobbie!sherlock. It was the tide that seemed to turn Sherlock into doing something for his friend...taking drastic action, destroying for life.

I don't know what to think really...except that I can't wait till what the prologue gave is finally returned to.

[shadowturquoise.livejournal.com]

Unlike your first 2 comments, I am really enjoying the back story that gets us to the prologue. Very few RBF stories have Mycroft in the dark. You did this AND dealt into his feelings about being out of the loop. Also, I was happy to see Mike Samford. He is definitely underused in fic and I love seeing him included. You have taken a unique approach to Moran and I look forward to seeing his journey from where he is now to when he shoots John.

[debriswoman]

Quite happy for you to take your time getting back to the prologue events. I have read very few Reichenbach fics as working out which among the many were worth reading looked as though it could be quite time consuming:-) You have a very effective turn of phrase and I am enjoying getting to know Mike Stamford a little better. Your take on Moran, and on Mycroft's role is interesting too.

Keep up the good work:-)

[cookiefleck.livejournal.com]

I started reading for the John h/c - and planning to read all of it as I also want to see what you do with John/Mary, which I usually enjoy reading, also. Those first two comments seem way out of line to me. I can maybe even see that kind of criticism if one has been reading a long fic and at the end it does a strange OOC flip or something similar that feels like a cheat, but you made your intentions clear in chapter 1 for cryin' out loud.

[rubespeanut.livejournal.com]

I don't know what to think. The prologue astounded me. The first chapter had me thinking that you were giving some backround on what led to the shooting. The fact that the entire story is "hiatus" based is disappointing.

I'm not really sure how to feel about this except that I know you are very true to the characters and that the prologue will eventually come the focus of this tale.

[pipmer1.livejournal.com]

Oh no, I didn't mean to give the impression that the entire fic was hiatus based. I imagined that perhaps half of it would be, although I'm bad at estimated things like that. Definitely not the entire fic, though.

[(Anonymous)]

I love that I'm finding myself....slightly sypathetic for Sabastian. And that both frightens me and proves to me the astonishing ability of your writing:

So Sebastian took the envelope containing the photograph of John Watson, and placed it in the flap of the suitcase he would be packing for the next leg of his journey. Call it an obsession, call it sadomasochism, but he never again wanted to lose the red-hot festering in his belly reminding him of his loss and the reason for it.

Sebastian and Sherlock are on opposite sides of the coin in regards of their morals(or lack thereof)

However, they both are on a quest now for one thing: Love, be it platonic or romantic, for the one person that understood and needed them and that they understood and needed in return.


I too, however, am greatly dismayed that the prologue seems some tease. You were able to pack so much in that prologue. So much emotion. You truly were able to 'show, not tell'. The reader was able to know from what you showed, but build their own 'reality' by how little you told. It was so clever.

Last chapter, and this chapter more so, it seems as if your quality is dropping somewhat. Not in your ability but in that you are telling, and telling, and telling... It's almost too much and not at all what I expected from the prologue.

I really wanted the story of the Prologue to be the one told-since so many RF fics exist. But it's not to be. And from what you've warned, it won't be for a very long time.

I too am a grand fan of John H/C. I loved the agonized, destroyed yet determined Sherlock. I loved that you didn't fall into the nauseating trope of "sherlock returns all broken and must be put back together by john" uck. Just UCK!!

I will continue to read but I feel you need to re-read your prologue. To see the power in it. To get back to 'show, not tell'. I also hope that it won't be too long to get to what the prologue teased at, the revenge...and the care for John after.

[nepthys-uk.livejournal.com]

I'm really pleased that you posted this *cheers*

You are a skilled writer and I'm really enthusiastic about your story-telling abilities. Although I don't know what you have plotted out for your story arc, I'm confident that it will do justice to the set-up in the prologue. Please stay with it, as I think you have an interesting take on the otherwise rather too-well-trodden canonical tale.

[rhyolight04.livejournal.com]

Please write more.

[kcscribbler]

Well, scratch that PM - you aroused my curiosity and I decided to pop over and see the feedback for this and the comments made me go back and just read it now.

First off, I have to say I've read so many post-TRF fanfics in the last month that I literally was sick of the fandom at one point, and that's the real reason I've not been around lately in any of the fic comms. I got tired of reading the same plots and characterizations ad nauseum.

This, however, is not one of those fics.

It cracks me up a bit, to see that you're being critiqued for doing a post-TRF story that supposedly has been done to death, and yet are also being critiqued for not going the Epic Cliche route and actually giving us a fantastic backstory instead of hopping right into the gratuitous John!whump and Sherlock-has-emooooootions!scene. Not that there's anything wrong with those - but in my opinion those are the elements that have been done to death, by all of us (myself included). Critiqueing you for doing a post-TRF story that doesn't focus immediately on some melodramatic h/c scene to me is an oxymoron. The comments don't really make sense to me, but whatever.

As for the prologue versus these chapters: Your prologue was, in a word, magical. It yanked me in and pretty much said I would regret it if I didn't stick with the story. Was your prologue stronger writing than the first two chapters? Possibly (more on that in a minute) - but in my mind, that's what a prologue is for. Especially in long WIPs, you need to have a prologue for the shock factor, a scene or chapter that basically tells your reader - Stick with me, because you won't regret it when we come back to this.

What comes after a prologue, however, is ten times harder to write; those less gut-wrenching filler chapters that are necessary but not really as gripping as the drama - they are essential to a story, but they aren't going to get you as much feedback just because it's in human nature to respond emotionally rather than rationally. In my experience, my worst-written stories are usually the ones with the most comments; my more cerebral ones are usually overlooked - because that's human nature. We respond to a gut-wrenching scene out of emotion, rather than responding to a chapter like this out of respect for the art that crafted it (which I do indeed respect, more on that in a minute). Don't let that dissuade you from writing these 'filler' chapters; because that is what keeps a reader like me reading you. Random angst and h/c is all well and good in its place - but it's craft like this that keeps me interested in a story. A prologue is to attract attention; the fic itself is to keep that attention, and you're doing that, no question.

Is your prologue more well-written? Who am I to judge. Maybe. But you need to remember that no writer's writing quality is consistent throughout a story, especially a long one. If my words don't convince you, just remember - the author of the gut-wrenching drama Reichenbach Fall, is also the author of the weakest of Series 1's episodes, The Blind Banker. One is stellar; the other is not as great; but people love them both, regardless. Keep in mind that one is specifically designed to rip your heart out; the other was designed to be more cerebral - and there is the difference in its reception, in my opinion. We love TRF because of its emotional impact; we dislike TBB because it doesn't reach out and grip us as much. However, that doesn't stop us from watching and rewatching both episodes. And that is the true secret to good writing; you will always have people who prefer certain things over others - but they can still like everything and enjoy reading it.

[kcscribbler]

Personally, I think these last two chapters are stellar. Your dialogue doesn't bore me - and I'm dialogue-picky, I get bored very easily - and your use of characters like Mike Stamford brings a refreshing touch to the admittedly overused post-TRF story idea. The plot appears to be well-thought-out (that much is obvious, and that's a rare thing with a long WIP), and promises originality over the usual TRF fics. As I said, I'm thoroughly disgusted with the fandom at the moment but I will read this and thoroughly enjoy it for its refreshing new take on the business. Your angstier scenes are not over-the-top, as so many writers' scenes are (loved the bit with John and Lestrade here), and I like that you are using characters that don't get much love in post-TRF fics.

Honestly, and correct me if this isn't your intention - but I can easily see this as an actual episode script. And possibly that's where people are dropping out of interest with it, if they are - because let's all admit, we watch the episodes once or twice but then on rewatches sometimes we fast-forward through the in-between scenes to get to the 'really good' ones. Because it's a WIP and a long fic, you're going to have readers who aren't overly interested in chapters like this because they're necessary filler; because most people read to feel an emotional reaction. Few readers read stories to marvel at the art and brilliant workmanship that goes into writing these tough interim chapters - but I am one of those, and I totally respect you for the work and effort you put into these chapters. Fanfiction to me is a work of art and a labor of love, and when I read a fic I want to see that in the author's writing. I see that in yours. Chapters like this are the reason I would keep reading a fic like this - because that tells me you love the work enough to take the time and write a solid foundation, rather than just throwing us into a pool of drama and h/c. If I want to read that, I'll go trawl a kinkmeme. Quality foundation and backstory is much harder to write than emotion-provoking angst; you have both, and that is the perfect balance.

Don't let a decline in feedback dissuade you from writing what you believe. You are the only one you need to please; if you please the rest of us, that is just an added bonus. Write what's in your mind and soul; write because you are a writer and you must; write because you are an artist and this is your work of love and vision. If the rest of us love it as well, then that's just a pleasant addition. I wouldn't have spent this long in a review if I didn't believe in you and your fic; but remember, you must believe in yourself and your art more than anyone else.

I say, well done, and I look forward to reading the rest of this!

[holyfant.livejournal.com]

Just wanted to say that I agree with absolutely everything you've said.