Having finally decided to stop lurking, I wanted to tell you how much I love your stories. Everything you've written is stunning, but it's a toss-up between this one and "Text Omitted" for my favorite. Incredibly atmospheric, perfectly paced, and harrowing. I've always wondered about the Hiatus; the contrast between Holmes' flippant description of what he's been doing for three years, and Watson's observation of his dead-white unhealthy complexion, is so suggestive. I think you've hit very, very close to the mark.
Your Holmes is searingly clever. That's not an easy thing to pull off (because let's face it, most of us aren't unparallelled genius detectives), but you make it look effortless. I wholeheartedly believe all his little ruses and the reasoning behind him. I love that even in such a desperate situation he manages to summon contempt for the idiocy of the people chasing him. It's so in-character.
At the same time, he is vividly, achingly human. He makes mistakes, questions himself, gets homesick (I love the poignancy of him deducing that the ship is British-made), loses his ingenuity in the face of exhaustion, cannot bear the thought having to invent yet another persona that will hold up. It's agonizing to see a character so proud and self-possessed reduced to the abject shivering misery of an infected wound (I have a soft spot for medical accuracy, and I love that you don't shy away from the brutal details). It's ever more so to see him struggling to hold on to his identity at the nearly cellular level of his name and language. And his violin calluses! Holmes without his violin is nearly as painful to contemplate as Holmes without his Watson. The fact that he can't even allow himself to think about Watson...agonizing doesn't even do it justice.
I love your metaphors and the way you use language. "Gangling polyglots" is a delightful phrase. Holmes' internal descriptions for cocaine ("crystal bullet," "liquid starlight") are worryingly reverent. The refusal to give Holmes his name until the end is seamless, not at all forced, and very powerful. A toy, placed on a table, marching jerkily towards the edge = wow. Sparing him part of the extortionate cost of living. Like a fellow-tenant in a set of rooms. WOW.
On a final note - I'm not certain if it was intentional, but I find it touching that two of his three aliases are variations of John.
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Having finally decided to stop lurking, I wanted to tell you how much I love your stories. Everything you've written is stunning, but it's a toss-up between this one and "Text Omitted" for my favorite. Incredibly atmospheric, perfectly paced, and harrowing. I've always wondered about the Hiatus; the contrast between Holmes' flippant description of what he's been doing for three years, and Watson's observation of his dead-white unhealthy complexion, is so suggestive. I think you've hit very, very close to the mark.
Your Holmes is searingly clever. That's not an easy thing to pull off (because let's face it, most of us aren't unparallelled genius detectives), but you make it look effortless. I wholeheartedly believe all his little ruses and the reasoning behind him. I love that even in such a desperate situation he manages to summon contempt for the idiocy of the people chasing him. It's so in-character.
At the same time, he is vividly, achingly human. He makes mistakes, questions himself, gets homesick (I love the poignancy of him deducing that the ship is British-made), loses his ingenuity in the face of exhaustion, cannot bear the thought having to invent yet another persona that will hold up. It's agonizing to see a character so proud and self-possessed reduced to the abject shivering misery of an infected wound (I have a soft spot for medical accuracy, and I love that you don't shy away from the brutal details). It's ever more so to see him struggling to hold on to his identity at the nearly cellular level of his name and language. And his violin calluses! Holmes without his violin is nearly as painful to contemplate as Holmes without his Watson. The fact that he can't even allow himself to think about Watson...agonizing doesn't even do it justice.
I love your metaphors and the way you use language. "Gangling polyglots" is a delightful phrase. Holmes' internal descriptions for cocaine ("crystal bullet," "liquid starlight") are worryingly reverent. The refusal to give Holmes his name until the end is seamless, not at all forced, and very powerful. A toy, placed on a table, marching jerkily towards the edge = wow. Sparing him part of the extortionate cost of living. Like a fellow-tenant in a set of rooms. WOW.
On a final note - I'm not certain if it was intentional, but I find it touching that two of his three aliases are variations of John.