Log in

No account? Create an account
03 May 2011 @ 09:13 pm
FIC: À la Recherche du Temps Perdu 1/?  
Title: À la Recherche du Temps Perdu 1/?
Author: WinterofourDiscontent
Beta by LaReineNoire, Beta/Britpick by rosamund, though anything they didn’t catch is my own bloody fault
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock eventual
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 740 in this part, many more to come
Warnings:: none
Disclaimer: not mine and I’m not making money at this
Summary: After the explosion at the pool, John finds himself reliving his own past. What can he change this time, and how can he get back to Sherlock?

Inspired by this fic prompt in the kinkmeme.

A/N: I’ve seen several takes on this from Sherlock’s perspective, but hadn't seen any from John's. The title is, of course, from Proust, and I’m choosing to translate it as “In Search of Lost Time” which fits this better than “Remembrance of Things Past”

You can read it on AO3 or


“I’m just so changeable!” Moriarity declares, and it ought to be laughable, that childish taunting voice from a grown man, but there’s anger and genius and more than a hint of madness behind it. And John is afraid.

The madman continues, “It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you. Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

And Sherlock has his gun, is shooting at the Semtex vest John was wearing minutes ago, and....

...and in his head he yells Sherlock! as everything goes dark.


His first thought, when he starts thinking again an indeterminate amount of time later, is that he is surprised that he wakes up at all, as John had been reasonably certain he was about to die. Then he is pleased to discover that he’s not in pain, and he wonders if perhaps he is dead anyway, because surely they couldn’t have survived that explosion without massive trauma. And then he opens his eyes and he is staring not at the acoustic tile ceiling of a hospital or into the faces of dead relatives waiting to welcome him into the Great Beyond, but at the stained ceiling of his mum’s house.

He is in his old bed.

John rips the covers off and runs to the bathroom he knows is down the hall. He pulls the light cord and stares into the mirror. And continues staring. And keeps at it, but the image doesn’t change.

It’s not just that he’s not just in his old house, the house that he knows for a fact was sold while he was at uni, after his mother succumbed to breast cancer. It’s that the face staring back at him, his face, looks to be all of fourteen.


John stays curled up in the bathtub until Harry starts yelling through the door that he’s taking up the bathroom again, and oh god, is he wanking off in there or something? He makes a quick retreat back to his room, where he locks the door again, turns off the lights, and resumes the foetal position in his bed.

This can’t be real. But if it isn’t, then this has to be the oddest, stupidest idea of an afterlife ever. Pinching himself hurts. Hitting himself does too, so he quits doing it. His shoulder, for the first time in memory, doesn’t hurt at all, but the thought that if he goes downstairs he’ll see his dead mother aches enough to make up for it. Maybe he’s just gone mad, brain damaged by a piece of falling pool tile. Or he’s in a coma, or dreaming, or... Sherlock would know.

Oh god, Sherlock. Is he alright? Did he survive? Will he ever get to find out?

...once you’ve eliminated the impossible...

Alright, John decides to assume that some way, some bloody how, he’s back in the past. His past. A past where he hadn’t yet become a doctor or gone to war or met the most impossible, brilliant man he will ever hope to meet. God, he wants to contact Sherlock right now.

Who should be... all of eight or so right now. And won’t know who he is. Whose phone number he doesn’t have, whose website does not yet exist, whose current address he has no idea of, because Sherlock doesn’t talk about his past if he can help it. He could have grown up abroad for all John knows.

John takes a deep breath. Alright, no Sherlock to help him. He survived without him for thirty-odd years the first time around, he can probably manage without him for a bit now. He stands up, flicks the light switch by the door, and resolutely walks over to his underwear drawer, where he fishes around in the dark recesses before pulling out an old, disgusting looking sock, wadded in the back. Yes. His pocket money is still there where he used to keep it, safe from Harry. He needs to buy notebooks, he needs to write this all down so he won’t forget any of it. He will not allow himself to forget any of it.

And once he’s sure he has every single fact pinned down to a page like a butterfly in a collection, then he can start figuring out a plan.


Part two is here
Tags: ,
scribe_protra: beware the nice onesscribe_protra on May 4th, 2011 06:13 am (UTC)
dsojgosjdgshigk oooooomg I think I must now friend you so I can get updates on this GLORIOUS AWESOME FIC when they happen.

shortcrustshortcrust on May 4th, 2011 06:39 am (UTC)
Oh my goodness, this is fabulous! I love the idea of a second perspective. :D
teatotaller: sherlock - blendteatotaller on May 4th, 2011 12:38 pm (UTC)
So much promise! How very John-like to write everything down. I'm really looking forward to seeing where you take this.
The Dreamer of a Thousand Names for Starlight: John Watsoncloudtrader on May 4th, 2011 11:25 pm (UTC)
Ooh, this is a fascinating premise! I'm really looking forward to more!
I Am the Bad Wolf: chibi_holmeswatsonjerel on May 5th, 2011 12:28 am (UTC)
Cool premise.

(Also, I think most modern Proust translations have started calling it In Search of Lost Time now. Much more accurate.)
coolciacoolcia on October 22nd, 2011 06:39 am (UTC)
what a great start!
Ah! ! !