Starry Night, Oil on Canvas, June 1889
Heart-stirring fic which evokes a magical sense of hot summer, of the lovely old Mediterranean town and of the past filled with sweet ghost of the gentle old woman. It is filled with peaceful resignation and nostalgia, conteplative silence, bitter-sweet sense of loss and yet it doesn´t need overabundance of words to convey all these feelings, it manages to paint all these things with the pair of well-chosen sentences. I sense the skilled hand of the master here.
The setting of the story was chosen with utmost care and oh, was it a delight to walk through this beautiful place in Sherlock´s shoes! Hmm, I wouldn´t mind to pass through Saint Rémy in reality either:



Dear author, you really managed to transport me into the middle of this wonderful corner of Provence and I thank you for that.
I love fanfics which are mingled with the real world to some extent and so I must highly praise your idea to include the RL Van Gogh painting into the storyline and to use it as a certain mirror for Sherlock´s mood and his introspection. „Being led astray, reaching for stars that were too big....“ Van Gogh´s words and yet I never read better descpription of Sherlock´s fleeting desires and failed efforts, these words convey it all in such a precise manner. Sherlock – Van Gogh parallelism lent an air of pending tragedy to the story and so I really feared for Sherlock´s fate here. That´s why your ending was so sweet. I relished it with all my heart.
And as was already mentioned, the structure of your story deserves admiration for the way in which it integrated plenty of flashbacks and scenes from various moments of Sherlock´s life into a wonderfully coherent, harmonious narrative. It felt absolutely natural and not a word seemed to be out of place, every colourful thread was weaved into the tapestry of your storyline with light hand assured of its goal. The sign of a skillful writer, no doubt.
Delightful summer relish tasting of chocolate, scented with lavender and honey. True magic at work.
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I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window there. Was there ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-coloured houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers, Doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them?
