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1. [livejournal.com profile] errantcomment has just updated Sherlock Holmes' Diary. Read it. LOL at it. It is every bit as glorious as the first installment.

2. ooh look, fic! which isn't strictly new; it was originally a fill on the Sherlock fic!meme back in August, and then I all but forgot about it altogether (because vacation and England and uni and reasons). I've rediscovered it recently, and reworked it slightly. The concept of Sherlock literally stealing hearts to replace his own still makes me grin rather foolishly.



anywhere i go, you go
Sherlock/John.
2148 words.
R. Warning for slight vore at the end — entirely consensual, and at least half metaphorical by this point, idk.
Sherlock belongs to the Beeb, Moffat, and Gatiss; originally ACD's; I make no money with this and mean no copyright infringement.
Written for this prompt: Sherlock doesn't have a heart of his own, so he steals others' for a while and then gives them back so the person keeps living. When John notices, he gives Sherlock his heart. And the heart grows.

notes: [livejournal.com profile] ningen_demonai is utterly insane, and has been trying to rationalize the fuck out of this universe, while I was mostly doing jazz hands and going METAPHOR at everything. Now I half want to continue this 'verse and have Sherlock&John get cardiac surgery together. Also, awake. (Fuck you, I have stuff to do!) The title is taken from e. e. cummings' poem 'i carry your heart with me', which is a stunning lack of originality on my part but just fit the prompt too well to pass.

notes2: [livejournal.com profile] quintenttsy has recorded a beautiful podfic of this. ♥





The first time Sherlock finds John's heart, it is two in the morning. It is on the kitchen table, abandoned as though John has left it there with his cuppa, left it there for a second while he went to fetch sugar for his tea, forgot it behind. John has gone to bed for three hours, creature of habits. Sherlock picks it up, cradles it in his hand: it is beating faintly, steadily, honestly. 

He's careful with it that night. He keeps it very close, close enough to touch, but he never does touch it — John is sleeping upstairs without his heart in his chest, which is fantastic. But he never touches it; it's early. It's too early to touch, he decides, looking at the strange red thing, copper-brown and delicately beating, on the table next to his laptop.

He wonders if John'll say a word about it, come morning.





Molly's is bird-like, light, and very soft; it doesn't sustain the journey well, and Sherlock must return it within two days, Molly falling upon it with a gasp, a panicked look of misunderstanding relief. He takes it again, twice. It isn't manipulation if you always give it back.

He never takes Mycroft's. He takes Lestrade's. He takes Sally's, and he enjoys it with slick, sick fascination. At uni he would keep jars, branch them out carefully, connect them together until he had a network, sixteen hearts linked together and beating. It was a magnificent friendship. Sherlock gave them back, and they never noticed.

"I fucking love you," Victor Trevor said ten days after they'd met, and Sherlock fair panicked — gave it back, take it back. You don't want it, he said, his voice rough with abruptness, when Victor demanded his in exchange.

He never took Victor's again.





John found out like this, six weeks ago: 

The latest stake-out changed into an insane race, rooftops and streetlights and rattling staircases, Sherlock's longer legs carrying him faster, further, than did John's — and when John caught up around the corner of the avenue, panting, grinning, his thigh unflinching and his shoulder thrown back and straight, Sherlock looked under the leather jacket. They'd missed their cue, let their quarry escape; it was a boy, twenty, barely, a boy who'd killed a man. Hardly worth the brainwork — hardly worth this:

John's heart was contracting and expanding inside his chest, under the leather jacket. It shook fast, beating the blood into his arteries, pounding a rapid, arrhythmic cadence. It was very red. It looked as though it'd drum its way out of John chest, and that was a temptation Sherlock didn't resist: he pushed his hand under the jacket, against the side of John's blue jumper, pushed it in. John's heart thudded fast against his palm.

"Okay," John said, very steady and very breathless, wide-eyed. He pressed his palm to the back of Sherlock's, so that Sherlock was trapped between John's heart and John's pulse; they thrummed in tandem, enclosing him in. It was delicious. He could taste it all the way up to his tongue.

John said, "It's alright," and touched his cold nose to the warm side Sherlock's neck.





John takes to leaving his heart about. It is not convenient. It is bothersome, and ridiculous, and every morning Sherlock will find it on the countertop after John's gone, very red. (John cares. He makes honest mistakes.)

Sherlock holds his heart in his hand, and. Oh, he thinks, breathless. I didn't think it went this fast.





They barter John's heart for months, sharing it, back and forth, with cups of tea and laptops and Chinese takeaway. John watches telly with socked feet curled up on the sofa. His ribcage is perfectly balanced, perfectly average; Sherlock has counted the twenty-four ribs, the cartilages, the vertebrae. He has drawn comparisons, written charts against the fridge at night, only for John to look disgusted in the morning and throw them all away.

"If you're so interested in the way my heart works, you might as well use it," he advices matter-of-factly, putting on a fresh jumper in the morning. "Sherlock, whose thumb is this, and what is it doing in the honey jar?"

Sherlock knows how hearts work. He has memorized the average heartbeat rhythm; he can dissect a human heart in thirty seconds flat, lay it bare and open for John to see. He won't, though. John likes his heart. It's a good heart, red and fist-like and clenched tight, pounding steadily. It loves well.

It makes its place in Sherlock's chest, purring loudly, very warm. Sherlock rubs his palm against it sometimes — it sits strangely there, too big and too hot for his body.





"You are completely bonkers," John tells him, affectionately. "You're a bloody fucking madman. You idiot," he says, his hand over the back of Sherlock's neck, very heavy and very warm. Sherlock, head bent over his microscope, stops breathing altogether.

"This is gorgeous," John says, meaning the chart, meaning the map, meaning the diagram Sherlock makes in red and black pen, all four chambers flung open wide, the atria firmly carved in, the ventricles delicate and rounded.

Sherlock closes his hand over the sharp, angular bones of John's left wrist, and thinks, Of course. It's yours, after all.





They touch each other easily, gradually, and soon it is all as if they had lived here for ten years instead of ten weeks. Sherlock yearns to spread his fingertips over the flat of John's chest, touch at the soft skin of his wrist, measure the pulse in his carotid artery; and John finds the tenderness in the back of his neck, presses his thumb to it in the mornings, when he's late for work and gulping down tea and his heart is very large and very enormous in their little kitchen. Sherlock watches it become great. It's a study in time that he appreciates, a delicacy he can enjoy.

I keep you here, he thinks, looking at John's heart underneath his thin t-shirt on a Sunday afternoon. It lights up John's chest like a red glow, murmuring under the skin. It keeps me.

John shakes the newspaper open and grins at him slightly over the edges of it. They sprawl contentedly on a Sunday evening, ten borrowed hearts on Sherlock's shelf, and John drinks a little tea, watches the evening news. Sherlock looks at him, never stops, and thinks, fondly, I'm never going to get over you. After. When you leave.





London is a gigantic ribcage. Sherlock taught himself to shut out the red — the hearts of London made constellations, tight thin networks interlocked. He taught himself the streets and boulevards and avenues, the map of London. He learnt the shape of the Thames, the main arteries, the passing cabs. He learnt about the gaping breach inside his chest, and how long he could survive it; he tamed his hands into stealing hearts effectively, easily, without pain. As an adolescent, he picked chests as swiftly as he picked pockets.

Astronomy and the solar system he never saw much use for, or much good. He had his own stars, red and spangled, between the streets of London.





Jim Moriarty wears a sharp, smart Westwood suit, and dusts his heart off his sleeve with a mindless gesture. He says, "But we both know that's not quite true," and Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment, conscious of John's heart pounding inside his chest. It feels unmoored, brought fast against the sides of his ribcage, beating beautifully. 

And later, when Sherlock tears the bomb off John's chest and shoulders, mouthing mindless frantic pleading, he forces it back inside of John's ribcage, hard enough that it will stay. John's legs buckle under the weight of it, the sudden rapid — loud — beating drumming startlingly close to his wounded shoulder.

"Glad no one saw that," he mutters, as Sherlock paces, his brain on fire, his chest throbbing where John's heart no longer is. Which means: normal people don't share hearts. But John cracks a stupid joke, and Sherlock laughs shakily, watching John's pulse murmur against the side of his throat.

Then there are flimsy red laser dots scattering about John's chest. John's heart jumps into his mouth, and it stains the insides of Sherlock's eyelids red, that last look. He aims a gun at a bomb. The world explodes, but blue.





The days after Moriarty are long, swamped in the stark gold of summer. Sherlock draws all the blinds down and curls on the couch like a child, ignoring John's attempts at tea or talking or sharing back his heart — every time he looks at it inside John's chest, something warm and liquid happens in his own. John's alive, though a bit singed around the edges, his right hand in a cast. Sherlock thinks he could live on this: on John's heart beating still, staggeringly.

John — moves around, changes clothes, makes tea, updates his blog. Sherlock is dormant, burrows himself down on the sofa sleepily; Lestrade doesn't call, and the days blur together in slanted light. It draws dusty lines into the darkened wallpaper; it outlines John's features in sharp contrast, making his eyelashes very thin and very dark against his cheeks when he blinks.

John's heart stays on the counter. John sleeps badly without it, nightmares marring his lined face in the evening, as he plucks it out with a grimace. 





Summer in London is sluggish, tainted red. John wears thin frayed t-shirts and washed out jeans when he is in the flat, seeking the cool in the kitchen and against windowpanes. The blue shirt he wears often is old, faded and very soft, carrying memories of med school, parties in pubs, early mornings after sleepless nights of cramming for an exam. It makes his face fall along different lines, smoothes over the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and his mouth.

The heat is near unbearable, August breaking against their windows in great slamming surges. John opens them all early, shuts them when the morning is halfway through; he opens them again in the evening, when the air cracks into something cooler and bluer. 

Sherlock gathers data. He observes John's movements around the kitchen, his sure, capable surgeon's hands deftly maneuvering around Sherlock's own experiments, his pipettes and microscopes. He analyses the heat, the measure of sunlight. He makes calculations for John's heart, how long it will go on, how much longer John will stay.





"Alright," John says, one afternoon, and Sherlock finds himself straddled, saddled with a lapful of ex-army surgeon, sitting heavily atop his hips and thighs. It crashes the air out of his lungs, stuns him slightly, makes his ears ring. John has been so careful. John has not touched him in a fortnight. The overwhelming casualness of this moment — John's strong legs enclosed in his old jeans and John's hands on each side of his head — upsets Sherlock's assessments, sends him reeling, sets his brain loose altogether.

"Hi," John says, a little forcefully, snapping his hips up to gather Sherlock's attention. "No losing yourself in your head, look at me. Sherlock. Yeah. Yeah, alright. This is stopping here, Sherlock, I mean this. You haven't left the flat in a month."

"I like the flat."

"I do too. It's a very nice flat. But here — Sherlock, that shelf there. It wasn't empty, six weeks ago. You were always stealing hearts to put there, and you weren't even doing anything with them at all, just borrowing, you always gave them back. Now you won't even take mine."

"I don't need it," Sherlock gasps, meaning, it'll burn in there. He said so, I won't have it, I won't have it. Something around John's eyes softens and widens, and he smooths one hand over Sherlock's throat, Sherlock's neck and jaw, the carotid artery where by all accounts there ought to be a pulse beating.

"It's too big for me now," says John.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut for a second, tightens his hands like clamps on John's thighs. John's fingers skitter upwards, touch his cheekbones, his eyebrows, the slant of his nose. "I'm not going," John says. "Push me away all you want, I'm not leaving."

"I don't want you to leave," Sherlock says.

"Good." And because John is utterly mad — insane enough to live here — he takes a bite into his own heart and pushes it into Sherlock's mouth. Flicks his tongue in, cool and red and very very wet. Sherlock swallows him in completely.

They take their time, biting and sucking and sharing morsels, teeth catching onto the other's mouth, until they each have a half, red all the way down their throats and inside their ribcages. John sprawls atop him afterward; they let the red spread between their chests, pounding quietly, until Sherlock no longer is certain whose, between them, the heartbeat is.

end.
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Date: 2011-10-04 10:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] samati.livejournal.com
I loved it.

Date: 2011-10-05 02:08 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Thank you. &hearts

Date: 2011-10-04 10:20 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lindentreeisle.livejournal.com
I like this!

Date: 2011-10-05 02:09 pm (UTC)

Date: 2011-10-04 11:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] chaos-walking.livejournal.com
This is really genuinely beautiful. You've done a really great job here.

Date: 2011-10-05 02:09 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
That's lovely to hear. Thank you so much.

Date: 2011-10-05 12:14 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] treelight.livejournal.com
It's so very strange and enchanting that I don't know how else to describe it.

Date: 2011-10-05 02:15 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Strange and vaguely fairytale-y was pretty much what I was going for. Thank you!

Date: 2011-10-05 12:38 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] uwsannajane.livejournal.com
V. v. cool, and somehow completely in character (I mean, for the-actual-show-plus-romance it's in character). Really well done, and beautifully written!

Date: 2011-10-05 02:18 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
somehow completely in character

That's really a relief — writing Sherlock is strangely easy, but I never know if he's not too OOC to be believable. Thank you! ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 12:58 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lbmisscharlie.livejournal.com
I remember reading this on the meme and like it - I'm happy to see it again and really like the changes you've made! It's a really lovely little piece with some stunning imagery. Well done!

Date: 2011-10-05 02:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Thank you so much. ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 01:00 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] fanbot.livejournal.com
This is breathlessly beautiful.

Thank you.

Date: 2011-10-05 02:46 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
That's lovely to hear, thank you.

Date: 2011-10-05 01:21 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] witch-in-winter.livejournal.com
Almost like reading a dream...or a Sandman tale. Thank you for the lovely images, even the 'gore'.

Date: 2011-10-05 02:47 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
I rather like dream-like stories. Thank you — I'm glad the strange fluff/gore imagery didn't weird you out.

Date: 2011-10-05 01:28 am (UTC)
errantcomment: (Default)
From: [personal profile] errantcomment
Good lord. Stunningly, swimmingly, simply surreal. Loved it. Gosh. Glorious.
Thanks.

Date: 2011-10-05 02:51 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Ohh my god, thank you so much, you beautiful person. ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 02:12 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] fireblazie.livejournal.com
Oh please never ever stop writing.

Where to start - I don't even know. Um, okay. Wow. Trying to think. I love these sorts of fics, the fics with an otherworldly, sort of, um, enchanting? atmosphere (like that very first Sherlock fic you'd recced me, also about hearts and Sherlock throwing his heart away) and the blur between the metaphorical and the literal and this was gorgeous in all the best ways and, just, look why do you always reduce me to this rambling mess of incoherency, do you do this on purpose? /glares suspiciously

also. also. that poem! 'i carry your heart with me', i mean, how did you know. i wrote out a scene in that almost-dead uni!AU fic that references that poem (well, i only wrote it in my head, but why should that mean that it isn't real?) and and how did you know.

Date: 2011-10-05 03:06 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Oh my god, darling. ♥♥♥ ilu so much. I absolutely do it on purpose. I reduce you to incoherency for a living. Shitty salary, but I get macaroons and make you all happy and incoherent. :D thank you, love.

because it is a fucking gorgeous poem akslaks;alsladjla i love it so much.

Date: 2011-10-05 04:11 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] veronamay.livejournal.com
Oh, this is gorgeous. I love metaphors-made-real fic, especially when it's as well done as this is. And that last little bit is just ... sweetly grotesque and a little disturbing and therefore, perfectly them.

Date: 2011-10-05 03:08 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Grotesque fit this rather well, now that I think about it. I'm still a little confused by what brought on the last bit, tbh. It was a gorgeous prompt, and this was so much fun writing — easy, too, which was a relief after so much writer's block. Thank you, dear!

Date: 2011-10-05 04:20 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mamishka.livejournal.com
A lovely, delicate, fairytale of a story, with both the beauty and the darkness inherent in that style. A very compelling and charming story. It does what magic realism stories do best - wraps you up in magic and myth and makes you believe every moment of it.

Date: 2011-10-05 03:10 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Oh gosh, this is such a gorgeous comment. Thank you so much, I'm glad it worked for you. ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 05:42 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ningen-demonai.livejournal.com
I love how my doing/saying things without thinking ends up making you want to write more. 8Db And hahahah, I didn't even notice the title the first time around. Of course it was from that poem, I am the most unobservant. :p (also do it do it do it)

YOU ALREADY KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS FIC it's sooo purty, I wanna either roll around it like a cat in catnip or hang it up like a chandelier for the sparkly. ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 03:20 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
YOU'LL ONLY GET THE BLAME, BABE. ♥ and ahahah I actually loved that you actually the title itself when you wrote that poem bit, and you didn't even notice. It was magnificent and I LOL'd my head off.

Also, thanks to your sparkling imagery, I know picture this fic as Lumière, which is disturbing.

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From: [identity profile] ningen-demonai.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-10-05 07:06 pm (UTC) - Expand

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From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-10-05 07:33 pm (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-10-05 03:26 pm (UTC)

Date: 2011-10-05 02:16 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mushroom18.livejournal.com
I like that after all the soft, gentle imagery, we have a slightly gory heart-swapping session. Through mouths. I loved everything.

Date: 2011-10-05 03:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
The gory bit was possibly the funniest to write, I really liked the discrepancy. Thank you! ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 02:44 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] meandthemadman.livejournal.com
Wow, that was just gorgeous ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 03:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Thank you so much. ♥

Date: 2011-10-05 11:43 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] mahmfic.livejournal.com
so strange and so lovely.

Date: 2011-10-07 10:39 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Thank you so much!

Date: 2011-10-07 12:24 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lionpyh.livejournal.com
This whole thing is gorgeous, the colors, the sort of hallucinatory complex points of physicality – there's something about it that reminds me of how the show itself will take an image and fix one point in it that's sharp and blur the rest, time-lapse location shots, so that you're made conscious of how odd it actually is to be watching a moving picture. Which is a phrase you don't think about, usually, as one doesn't, as well, with phrases to do with hearts.

Sherlock thinks he could live on this: on John's heart beating still, staggeringly.

I have ten kinds of a Thing for metaphors made literal, except that it is mostly always done so badly, I've grown very suspicious, I almost didn't look – but (although, er, I don't think I've ever addressed you so directly, sorry, fandom makes stalkers of us all) because this was yours, I did, obviously, and am glad I did.

Date: 2011-10-07 10:48 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Don't apologize, we're all stalkers here. ♥ I'm tickled pink that you actually decided to give it a go, despite your original reluctance, and that it actually worked for you. You've outlined exactly what I love about the cinematography in this show, re: colours and atmosphere and locations, and that this piece reminded you of that is a great compliment to me! Thank you so, so much.

Date: 2011-10-08 02:19 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] belovedmuerto.livejournal.com
Oh man. I love magical realism, and magical realism with Sherlock is pretty much my favorite kind. It's so hard to get right, and you got it so right.

And the ending is killer. Just awesome and beautiful and perfect.

Date: 2011-10-08 05:00 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
There's something about magical realism in Sherlock fandom that's very attractive — might be due to the scientific approach Sherlock has on everything, so having him in a setting that doesn't quite fit our physics laws and universal rules is always interesting.

Thank you so much. ♥

Date: 2011-10-08 08:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] ellieet.livejournal.com
"It's too big for me now," says John.

*thumbs-up*

BIG YES.

I love these magical realism ideas. Sherlock's panic over the hearts is especially so well done. I love it. And the ending was perfection.

Keep up the good work. :D

Date: 2011-10-09 02:21 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
The heart growing was part of the original prompt, but I'm glad you liked the execution! Magical realism plots are often a lot of fun to write. Thank you for your encouragement. ♥

Wait! Listen!

Date: 2011-10-09 07:48 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] diresphinx.livejournal.com
Alright, I am finally fed up with the stupid internet and fanfiction not sending off any messages I send, so this is short and sweet. Sara, I am in Bad Oeynhausen in Germany from now until the 22nd. I am wondering if you would like to get together on the 15th or 16th in Paris or somewhere inbetween. Try to message me on fanfiction please.

Hope to hear from you soon,

-DireSphinx

Re: Wait! Listen!

Date: 2011-10-09 08:27 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
/blink

I haven't had news from you in the last few... uh... months, actually. Last I remember were PMs; I'd wondered where you'd got to. But yeah, sure — the 15th would work best for me, tbh, and Paris is fine, I live here. What about lunch, for instance?

I'll be sending a version of this over on a PM as well, if your Internet connection's gone wonky. I'm glad to hear from you again, love. ♥

Date: 2011-10-14 09:17 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] kim47.livejournal.com
I have a weird relationship with magical realism, especially in Sherlock fic; either it works for me or it really doesn't. This is one of the ones that does, and it's beautiful :)

Date: 2011-10-14 09:46 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
I've not yet read a Sherlock!magical realism fic that didn't work for me. I've probably not read them all, but. I really like this genre; I feel at ease here, and I'm glad it works for you as well. :D Thank you. ♥

Date: 2011-10-16 06:54 pm (UTC)
leish: [bandom] Brendon Urie (ready to pod) (podfic)
From: [personal profile] leish
I'm not entirely sure how I found myself here but wow, wow I am so glad I did. This was beautiful. Magical realism is one of my favourite things ever and you've done it so well. It looked as though it'd drum its way out of John chest, and that was a temptation Sherlock didn't resist: he pushed his hand under the jacket, against the side of John's blue jumper, pushed it in. This image, I love this image, whether it's supposed to be literal or metaphorical. I don't know, I see the stealing hearts thing as more metaphorical but it's just. It just works both ways, somehow, because it's Sherlock and it isn't at all unusual that he goes around stealing people's hearts and that John doesn't find it all that strange, just accepts it like he accepts thumbs in honey jars, and I'm probably not making any sense any more but I really, really loved this.

Also, would you mind terribly if I were to podfic this? :D

Date: 2011-10-16 08:53 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Most of this 'verse toes the line pretty thinly between literal and metaphorical, to the point that I'm not even quite sure where it starts and where it ends. I rather liked the idea that this verse's Sherlock is able to experiment on emotions and feelings the way he would experiment on our world's physical laws and chemicals; it gives a neat spin to his stance on caring and being emotionally stunted when it comes to people. And of course he'd keep the hearts in jars. He'd line them up on the table while John is eating breakfast and babble about ventricle sizes and heart rates. :D thank you for such a long, thought-out comment! I'm really glad you liked this.

And I'd be delighted if you podficced this. ♥

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From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-10-18 02:35 pm (UTC) - Expand

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From: [personal profile] leish - Date: 2011-10-18 07:09 pm (UTC) - Expand

Date: 2011-10-17 09:56 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] omletlove.livejournal.com
Oh this is incredible. Thank you so very much. <3

Date: 2011-10-18 02:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Thank you for your kind words. ♥

Date: 2011-10-17 11:38 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] aeipath.livejournal.com
Oh, I have a certain weakness for fics like this. It's very enchanting and beautiful when it almost shouldn't be. You did a fantastic job with this. A really fantastic job. It's surreal while still seeming entirely plausible. That is not easy to pull off. Unghf. Gorgeous.

Date: 2011-10-18 02:38 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] falling-voices.livejournal.com
Surreal yet plausible was pretty much what I was trying to achieve, and I'm very glad it worked for you. Thank you for taking the time to tell me so. ♥
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