I was tagged in this fic meme by the lovely @perverselyvex. :)1. 3 fan art/fics with the most...

I was tagged in this fic meme by the lovely @perverselyvex. :)

1. 3 fan art/fics with the most comments

1. Against the Rest of the World (1,396 comments)

2. Scars (872 comments)

3. Right Hand Man (602 comments)

None of these are surprises to me - fics that post as WiPs always get more comments than others do! 

2. 3 fan art/fics with the most likes (kudos)

1. Best of Three (2,982 kudos)

2. Second Chance (2,114 kudos)

3. At the Heart of it All (1,935 kudos)

3. Oldest fan art/fic

In the Sherlock fandom, Resurrection. In Harry Potter… let’s not even go there, lol. 

4. Your latest fan art/fic

The Legacy of Martha J. Hudson. It’s still making people cry, apparently. :)

5. Your proudest fan art/ fic

For sheer amount of time spent and research put in, it just has to be Against the Rest of the World. It’s the story my novel is loosely based on. It took me four months to write, updating on average every six days. As it’s all in first person perspective (Sherlock), I basically spent four months living inside (my concept of) Sherlock’s head, and I missed him when it was over! 

6. Your longest fan art/fic

Against the Rest of the World, again. (In this fandom, at least). It’s 151,704 words long, over 20 chapters. 

7. Top 3 crossover fan art/fics

I don’t do crossovers of AU’s. I write strictly canon-compliant material, at least until new canon comes in and makes it no-longer-compliant. 

8. Your favourite character to write/draw in fan art/fic

It’s a very tough call, but Sherlock is obviously first for me. I do LOVE writing John too, though!!! I’ve also really liked my brief forays into writing Lestrade and Mycroft especially. Other POVs I’ve written include Mary (interesting experience but not really an enjoyable one, as I loathe the character), Janine (fun), Mrs Hudson (delightful), and Sally Donovan (eh). 

9. Favourite lines or favourite scene from a WIP fan art/fic

A WiP! I only have my novel at the moment! There’s over 62K of that to choose from, too, so… let’s see. Why don’t I give you the most recent snippet I wrote? I’ll put it under a cut. Just before the jump, I’ll just say that I’m tagging anyone who writes and wants to do this. :)

So, ok: as I said, this novel is based on Against the Rest of the World. My Sherlock-ish character is Thomas; my John-ish character is Michael. Michael has just gotten married (is currently on his honeymoon in Aruba) and Thomas only realised his feelings for Michael at the wedding. Thomas is currently in the old city of Sana’a, Yemen, trying to find a missing piece in an old mystery: 

A little further along, he comes to a tiny restaurant, more
of a kiosk, and recalls that he ate there. Saltah, he thinks, remembering the
taste of it, the brightness of the flavours on his tongue. He checks his watch:
it’s high time he ate something, anyway. He is dressed carefully, trying to
strike a balance. There is no hiding the fact that he is a pale-skinned
westerner, so attiring himself in a full thoob or futa would definitely read as
trying too hard, or trying to disguise himself. He is not Muslim; therefore why
would an Englishman attire himself as one? Instead, he has chosen sturdy
sandals, jeans, and a loose linen tunic with a shoulder bag strapped across his
torso. He also has no wish to stand out like an American tourist; hence a more
moderate disguise. He stops in front of the restaurant and makes eye contact
with the elderly man behind the counter.

“Saltah?” the man asks, sounding hopeful.

Thomas nods. “Ai, min
fadlak.” His Arabic is quite limited, so he listens attentively for a price
to be given.

The elderly man scoops the fragrant stew into a bowl and
says something, gesturing at the two small tables on the pavement to the side
of the counter. Thomas gathers that he is meant to sit and eat first, pay
after, so he chooses a seat at one of the two rickety metal tables set up just
beside the stall. His meal is served a moment later. “Shay?” the proprietor asks, offering tea, and Thomas nods. He eats
the stew slowly, and it’s as good as he remembered from before. The lamb pieces
are soft, the meat shredded and tender, and this batch was made with egg and a
froth of fenugreek. The spice is offset by the softness of the fresh flat bread
the proprietor set down next to the his bowl, absorbing the heat of the
chillies from his tongue. Thomas’ thoughts go again to Michael, wondering if
he’s ever tried saltah (unlikely) and whether or not he would like it. He
probably would. He is obviously familiar with Pakistani and Afghani cuisine and
often suggested Indian when they went out. He thinks of the probable blandness
of the resort food in Aruba and suddenly the disconnect between the two
concepts – the plastic cheer of a resort designed for tourists and the ancient
dust and stone of the old city of Sana’a – strikes him swiftly and leaves him
nearly breathless. He and Michael might as well be occupying separate universes
right now.

He finishes the meal, keeping his thoughts with grim
determination on the passers-by, his face a studied neutral, then pushes the
bowl aside and reaches for his tea. It’s mint, fresh leaves suspended in the
small glass cup, hot on his fingertips. He drinks it and remembers the first
time he and Michael made tea in the flat, Michael thinking him pretentious for
not using tea bags. His later admission that he’d never used loose tea before
and wasn’t precisely sure how it was done. He was a stranger then. They’d
learned one another, and Thomas had learned for the first time what it meant,
allowing someone into his personal life, his home, his space. It seems
impossible now to eliminate the space in his life and very being that Michael
carved out for himself and occupied, though that’s too strong a wording for the
gentleness of Michael’s slow insinuation into his life. The question is what to
do with that space now, that emptiness. He can hardly push Michael out of the
small part he still uses and bolt the door closed after him. He must simply
learn to live with the emptiness, as surely as he once learned to accept what
felt very much like an unwelcome intrusion in the beginning. Ironic, that.

He finishes the tea, sits a moment or two longer, then
signals the proprietor and pays. “Shukran,”
he says, and goes, careful to re-assume his previous pace of calculated
casualness.

_

(And that’s literally the most recent thing I’ve written!)