finishing the work week, wordcount: 25,241

[avawatson]

I've been writing this fusion fic of 13 Going on 30 for years. The earliest draft of this that I can find is from March 2, 2015. I work on it in pieces here and there, on my phone, in Google Docs, then Scrivener: March-May 2015 were big months, then September 2015, then January 2016, then July-August 2016. Now April-May 2017.

So. That is all to say that I was thinking of Westworld hosts, and I thought if this fic were a Westworld-esque robo-cyborg-host, I would be constructing it like this:

• immense detail on the face, which is where the eyes generally start when you look at someone. If I spent the same amount of time tweaking the first 5k of this fic as I have on zero drafting the rest of the story, I'd probably have nearly twice as much written.
• tiny solid pieces of internal organs, but nothing connected to one another; everything just jammed into the torso ungracefully. Thankfully, Scrivener lets me keep the pieces separated and summarized and movable.
• half a leg. Or possibly two legs but separated from the torso. The fic is not moving anywhere, but it has the vague notion that it will at some future point in time.

(I never said this almost-blog would be interesting.)

Edited to add a quick snippet under the cut if anyone wants a few more minutes in 1989.

-

"You're lit up like a Christmas tree," Sherlock hissed, giving in. "Over Penelope Middleton," he added, unable to keep the distaste out of his tone.

 

John shifted in his chair. He chewed slowly, ears burning.

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said with affected innocence. He swallowed with difficulty, as stubborn as he was transparent.

 

"Oh don't prevaricate, John, it's unbecoming," Sherlock said crossly.

 

"I am not!" Bald-faced denial. Defensive. Typical.

 

“I do not for the life of me understand what you see in them,” Sherlock muttered.

 

“Them who? Pen-pe’s gang of friends?”

 

Sherlock clucked his distaste. “Who voluntarily calls themself Pen-pe anyway? That has to be the most horrid nickname I’ve ever heard for Penelope and there are plenty of them.”

 

John gave a little shrug. “She’s popular and one of the beautiful people, she kind of gets to do what she wants. That’s kind of how all this works.” He gestured vaguely at the great hall around them, as if giving a tour.

 

Beautiful people, Sherlock thought with disgust. “People have no taste.”

 

“I’m not trying to get a leg over, you know, Sherlock,” John frowned, although his eyes were doing something more complicated. “Not really looking for anything right now,” he said, slightly quieter.

 

“Didn’t stop you from snogging Gloria Trevor,” Sherlock said acidly, the words slipping from him before he could stop them. His chest felt tight, as it always did when he recalled his one time violin partner, her lips smudged with raspberry red and giggling so stupidly for someone in the top ten of the class. Until she started showing an interest in John, he hadn’t realised exactly how stupidly she had always giggled. Sherlock played solo now.

 

“Yeah, well,” John said, staring pointedly down at his tray.

 

“Or Mary Morstan,” Sherlock bit out.

 

“You knew about that?” John’s eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock’s.

 

“You mean that was meant to be a secret?” Sherlock retorted, insulted. He’d lose all appetite for his food at this rate.

 

“That wasn’t—I wasn’t—that is—it wasn’t just—”

 

“Oh spare me the sordid details,” Sherlock cut in, physically unable to handle more girl-related stammering. “There’s not enough brain bleach in the world.”

“I’ve—I’ve no plans to snog Pen-pe Middleton or any of her gang, I’m just giving her my notes,” John shot back. “No need to throw a strop.”

 

“A strop,” Sherlock repeated, blood spiking with disdain. “I'm not throwing a strop, why would I be in a strop? Am I the type of person to have a strop? It's not as if I care who you snog or don’t snog, not when it's all such pointless," he waved his hand, searching for the right word, "sentiment."

 

John snorted. "Yeah alright, Mycroft.” Sherlock scowled, felt his nostrils flaring. “I grant I’m not looking for forever or anything”—Sherlock flinched—“but...being close with someone, feeling..." John trailed off, casting his glance aside. "I mean, fancying someone, having a crush, those are perfectly normal things, aren’t they? Normal thoughts, normal…pursuits. Don’t you think? Especially...well, at our age. Thanks, Mother Nature and all that, eh?" He flashed a crooked grin that fell away just as quickly, brittle. He cleared his throat. "Even—even you must succumb and fancy someone sometime in your life...right?"