The Bartok Quartets

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?

The Bartok Quartets

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?

Because I need something to be simple...

Georgette Heyer's The Quiet Gentleman

This is seriously the cutest little romance ever. I am in love with the heroine; she is practical to a fault. She acknowledges this in a scene where 'the prosaic Miss Morville' argues with her would-be passionate incarnation 'Drusilla'. Excerpt below, none of it written by me.

'It is a great piece of folly to suppose that because his manners are so very engaging he regards you with anything but tolerance!' she told her image. She then blew her nose, sniffed, and added, with a glance of contempt at her rather flushed countenance: 'Depend upon it, you are just the sort of girl a man would be glad to have for his sister! You don't even know how to swoon, and I daresay if you tried you would make wretched work of it, for all you have is common-sense, and of what use is that, pray?

This embittered thought brought to her mind the several occasions upon which she might, had she been the kind of female his lordship no doubt admired, have kindled his ardour by a display of sensibility, or even of heroism. This excursion into romance was not entirely successful, for while she did her best to conjure up an agreeable vision of a heroic Miss Morville, the Miss Morville who was the possessor not only of a practical mind but also of two outspoken brothers could not but interpose objections to the heroine's actions. To have thrown herself between the foils, when she had surprised the Earl fencing with Martin, would certainly have been spectacular, but that it would have evoked anything but exasperation in the male breast she was quite unable to believe. She thought she need not blame herself for having refrained upon this occasion; but when she recalled her behaviour in the avenue, when the Earl had been thrown from his horse, she knew that nothing could excuse her. Here had been an opportunity for spasms, swoonings, and a display of sensibility, utterly neglected! How could his lordship have been expected to guess that her heart had been beating so hard and so fast that she had felt quite sick, when all she had done was to talk to him in a voice drained of all expression? Not even when his lifeless body had been carried into the Castle had she conducted herself like a heroine of romance! Had she fainted at the sight of his blood-soaked raiment? Had she screamed? No! All she had done had been to direct Ulverston to do one thing, Turvey another, Chard to ride for the doctor, while she herself had done what lay within her power to staunch the bleeding.

At this point, the prosaic Miss Morville intervened. 'Just as well!' she said.

'He would have liked me better had I fallen into a swoon!' argued Drusilla.

'Nonsense! He would have been dead, for well you know that no one else had the least notion what to do!' said Miss Morville.

'At least I might have screamed when Martin came through the panel!'

'He was very much obliged to you for not screaming. He said you were a remarkable woman,' Miss Morville reminded her.

'I heard him say the same of his Aunt Cinderford!' said Drusilla, refusing to be comforted.

Miss Morville could think of no reply to this, but issued instead depressing counsel. 'You would do better to put him out of your mind, and return to your parents,' she said. 'No doubt he will presently become betrothed to a tall and beautiful woman, and forget your very existence. However, a useful life lies before you, for your brothers will certainly marry, and although you yourself will remain single, you will be an excellent aunt to all your nephews and nieces.'

It was perhaps not surprising that it was Miss Morville rather than Drusilla, who presently carried his medicine to the Earl.

End snippet - but earlier, our intrepid Earl, in the haze following his being shot...

A train of thought was set up in the Earl's mind. He said suddenly: 'She does not object to Pug, and they can make up ten beds.'

'That is excellent,' said Miss Morville calmly, sponging his face again. 'Now you may rest.'

'What happened to me?' he asked.

'You met with a slight accident, but it is of no consequence. You will be better directly.'

'Oh!' His eyelids were dropping again, but he smiled, and murmured: 'You are always coming to my rescue!'

She returned no answer. He sank into a half-waking, half-dreaming state, aware of an occasional movement in the room, but not troubled by it. Once, a firm, light hand held his wrist for a minute, but he did not open his eyes.

But presently he was disturbed, rather to his annoyance, by a new and an unknown voice, which seemed to be asking a great many questions, and issuing a tiresome number of orders. It was interrupted by Ulverston's voice several times. The Earl was not at all surprised when he heard the strange voice say: 'I assure your lordship I should prefer to have no one but Miss Morville and the valet to assist me.'

Ulverston seemed to think that Miss Morville could not assist the stranger. he said, in his most imperious tone: 'Nonsense! She could not do it!'

'Yes, she could,' said the Earl, roused by this injustice.

Because I need something to be simple...

Georgette Heyer's The Quiet Gentleman

This is seriously the cutest little romance ever. I am in love with the heroine; she is practical to a fault. She acknowledges this in a scene where 'the prosaic Miss Morville' argues with her would-be passionate incarnation 'Drusilla'. Excerpt below, none of it written by me.

'It is a great piece of folly to suppose that because his manners are so very engaging he regards you with anything but tolerance!' she told her image. She then blew her nose, sniffed, and added, with a glance of contempt at her rather flushed countenance: 'Depend upon it, you are just the sort of girl a man would be glad to have for his sister! You don't even know how to swoon, and I daresay if you tried you would make wretched work of it, for all you have is common-sense, and of what use is that, pray?

This embittered thought brought to her mind the several occasions upon which she might, had she been the kind of female his lordship no doubt admired, have kindled his ardour by a display of sensibility, or even of heroism. This excursion into romance was not entirely successful, for while she did her best to conjure up an agreeable vision of a heroic Miss Morville, the Miss Morville who was the possessor not only of a practical mind but also of two outspoken brothers could not but interpose objections to the heroine's actions. To have thrown herself between the foils, when she had surprised the Earl fencing with Martin, would certainly have been spectacular, but that it would have evoked anything but exasperation in the male breast she was quite unable to believe. She thought she need not blame herself for having refrained upon this occasion; but when she recalled her behaviour in the avenue, when the Earl had been thrown from his horse, she knew that nothing could excuse her. Here had been an opportunity for spasms, swoonings, and a display of sensibility, utterly neglected! How could his lordship have been expected to guess that her heart had been beating so hard and so fast that she had felt quite sick, when all she had done was to talk to him in a voice drained of all expression? Not even when his lifeless body had been carried into the Castle had she conducted herself like a heroine of romance! Had she fainted at the sight of his blood-soaked raiment? Had she screamed? No! All she had done had been to direct Ulverston to do one thing, Turvey another, Chard to ride for the doctor, while she herself had done what lay within her power to staunch the bleeding.

At this point, the prosaic Miss Morville intervened. 'Just as well!' she said.

'He would have liked me better had I fallen into a swoon!' argued Drusilla.

'Nonsense! He would have been dead, for well you know that no one else had the least notion what to do!' said Miss Morville.

'At least I might have screamed when Martin came through the panel!'

'He was very much obliged to you for not screaming. He said you were a remarkable woman,' Miss Morville reminded her.

'I heard him say the same of his Aunt Cinderford!' said Drusilla, refusing to be comforted.

Miss Morville could think of no reply to this, but issued instead depressing counsel. 'You would do better to put him out of your mind, and return to your parents,' she said. 'No doubt he will presently become betrothed to a tall and beautiful woman, and forget your very existence. However, a useful life lies before you, for your brothers will certainly marry, and although you yourself will remain single, you will be an excellent aunt to all your nephews and nieces.'

It was perhaps not surprising that it was Miss Morville rather than Drusilla, who presently carried his medicine to the Earl.

End snippet - but earlier, our intrepid Earl, in the haze following his being shot...

A train of thought was set up in the Earl's mind. He said suddenly: 'She does not object to Pug, and they can make up ten beds.'

'That is excellent,' said Miss Morville calmly, sponging his face again. 'Now you may rest.'

'What happened to me?' he asked.

'You met with a slight accident, but it is of no consequence. You will be better directly.'

'Oh!' His eyelids were dropping again, but he smiled, and murmured: 'You are always coming to my rescue!'

She returned no answer. He sank into a half-waking, half-dreaming state, aware of an occasional movement in the room, but not troubled by it. Once, a firm, light hand held his wrist for a minute, but he did not open his eyes.

But presently he was disturbed, rather to his annoyance, by a new and an unknown voice, which seemed to be asking a great many questions, and issuing a tiresome number of orders. It was interrupted by Ulverston's voice several times. The Earl was not at all surprised when he heard the strange voice say: 'I assure your lordship I should prefer to have no one but Miss Morville and the valet to assist me.'

Ulverston seemed to think that Miss Morville could not assist the stranger. he said, in his most imperious tone: 'Nonsense! She could not do it!'

'Yes, she could,' said the Earl, roused by this injustice.

(no subject)

So now I am Learning All About Cricket.

Is it OOC of Sherlock to be a decent bowler?

ETA - I have no idea what this means, but I'm having fun trying to puzzle it out...

The ball following a front foot no-ball will be a free-hit for the batsman, whereby he is safe from losing his wicket except for being run-out.

Edited again - sneering Mycroft aside, do we think the boys actually call their mother Mummy? as adults? I'm not sure I can make myself do that.

(no subject)

So now I am Learning All About Cricket.

Is it OOC of Sherlock to be a decent bowler?

ETA - I have no idea what this means, but I'm having fun trying to puzzle it out...

The ball following a front foot no-ball will be a free-hit for the batsman, whereby he is safe from losing his wicket except for being run-out.

Edited again - sneering Mycroft aside, do we think the boys actually call their mother Mummy? as adults? I'm not sure I can make myself do that.