A day at the beach – the Baker Street way
Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, a veritable butterfly, enjoying itself to the full of its bent, and not knowing it was Chuang Chou. Suddenly I awoke, and came to myself, the veritable Chuang Chou. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man.
Wow, I had such a taoist feeling while reading this story! The idea of integrating two different timelines of Sherlock´s and John´s life through John´s dream was perfect and written in such a playful manner, it really left you guess which „reality“ did actually take place in this story and which one was an illusion. Or perhaps they were both real? So intriguing!
The „day of the beach“ part of this story, on the other hand, was wonderfully Johnlocky. John´s playful bait for Sherlock in the form of the book, Sherlock´s (correct) deductions about the contents of the gift, the nice touch of book being the one on beekeeping... that all brought a nice feeling of deep, dedicated relationship to this fic that was a pleasure to read. Sherlock massaging John, besides being extremely hot, lulled John and us the readers into a nice repose... and that´s why the contrast with the following, Victorian action story was so effective. I loved it. Victorian Holmes successfully catching a criminal for Lestrade was a must, of course and very satisfying.
All in all, this was a truly enjoyable intellectual play that both challenged our imagination and painted a loving picture of the pair connected by unshakable love and adoration. Immense pleasure.
And gimmecat, your picture accompanying the story is both sweet and heartbreaking. Those scars on Sherlock´s back! Oh, what sadness! And yet the trust and closeness of John! The deep sea horison! What beauty!
Last edited by nakahara (July 8, 2016 5:10 pm)
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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?
