The Bartok Quartets

[impulsereader]

I have found Sherlock. I now know what he is doing in this fic. He is still finding his way home; and he is doing it through music. This is so terribly, fearfully, insanely beautiful - and I have no idea if I am capable of getting the point across.

As of my last post I cannot even decide where to set Much Ado. How can I possibly reconcile Sherlock with home? I am not even a musician. I cannot possibly relate to his character on this level.

I've been plotting this story all weekend, and I came home tonight with a perfect, guaranteed solitary opportunity to translate some of it to actual writing - and immediately found I couldn't do anything - at all - so I ate corn and watched A Scandal in Belgravia for lack of a better idea. I sulkily researched cricket, science experiments, and Bartok. Bartok turned the key.

Now it is too late to write, as sleep is actually advisable at some point, and I have even more words pressing uncomfortably into my brain. I don't know whether to be happy that I might have reached a jumping off point or upset because this story just keeps expanding. I haven't yet learned how to properly keep hold of a story; how do I know when one has gotten away from me? Right now it seems as if I have just discovered an element which was always meant to be here, but I am worried that the dictation into my brain doesn't automatically come with a side of neat organization - HA! - I fear I am a Sherlock without a John by my side.

typing both gets me in trouble and sorts out my brain.

New worry - No One is going to want to read this fic except me...Shakespeare, Bartok, crossover, and excess of original characters - WTF?

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The fabulous icon is courtesy [info]redscharlach, who has a lot of brilliant Cabin Pressure and Sherlock cartoon icons.