![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: bending time with Death
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
disassembly_rsn
Author: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings:fem!John, Sherlock; gen
Rating:PG-13 to be safe
Warnings:possible butchering of both Lovecraft and Sherlock universes, and some disturbing (?) scenes
Summary: Once upon a time man’s soul was very powerful, but then man made a pact with the Elder Gods, and in exchange for their protection, they gave up that power. Joan needs to recover that power if she wants to live, and Sherlock is more than who he seems to be.
Notes: Welldisassembly_rsn suggested a BBC version of A Study in Emerald, but uh somehow the end product was made with elements of the Hounds of the Baskervilles and Lovecraft’s creation of the Hounds of Tindalos. I’m not sure if this still counts as being in A Study in Emerald verse though. Uh, it’s my first time writing female John, and I hope this whole thing doesn’t disappoint (much).
(Actually I don’t really know what I’ve written, but I hope you’ll enjoy.)
bending time with Death
A common perception is that Joan Watson has been honorably discharged from the army because of an unfortunate encounter with the Afghan cavefolk that similar British soldiers in the past have not been able to conquer.
That is only part of the story.
The sudden hiss of a snarl catches her attention.
There is more snarling from behind her, and Joan is running in fear through the darkness. She is not chancing a look, not even a peek to confirm her suspicions, because she knows she will see nothing even if she does. The Hounds cannot be seen.
Looking back will only slow her down, and she needs all the time she can get.
Time; that is the bloody thing which got her into this mess in the first place.
The Hounds don’t exist in her own time; they can only travel through time, catch their prey in the angles of time, their unfortunate prey who did not travel through time by the correct route. Those desperate time-travellers who risk taking the angles, those who try to change history. And Joan is one of those time-travellers, the desperate ones. She needs to stop the cavefolk ambush that killed her entire unit but her, and by doing so, she’s caught the attention of the Hounds.
Joan knows they’re not just after her life, her blood. The army stories say that the Hounds live on people’s will, their souls. They say that once the Hounds catch scent of you, no amount of running can save you; it’s more merciful to kill yourself than to let them catch up with you.
But she isn’t ready to die yet. Nor is she giving up her soul just like that.
The darkness is blinding. Choking. She continues running on, eyes wide open even though there’s nothing that can be seen; with a sickening lurch of her heart, Joan realizes she’s taken the wrong turn, or the wrong road, or the wrong whatever. Whatever it is, she knows instinctively, like every good time-traveller, (though if she were one, she wouldn’t have been caught up in this mess), she knows she’s headed for a corner.
A corner in time can be dangerous. It is lethal when there are those death Hounds chasing on your tail.
At that moment, Joan feels like a cat, a helpless housecat, being chased by the big bad dogs next door. She wishes she could have been a cheetah, or a tiger, and makes a decision all at once.
In the space of a couple seconds as she scoots to a stop a few paces before the corner, Joan thinks she can see Death.
Then she closes her eyes and wishes herself back to her own time, hoping the horrid creatures won’t be able to follow her through. She panics when she smells, feels the rancid stench of the Hounds behind her, breathing down her neck.
God please,Joan involuntarily thinks, even though knowing there’s no God in their world, and even if there were one, It wouldn’t be of much help to her – nothing can stop the Hounds.
Still she thinks:
Please, God, let me live.
Miraculously, Joan survives the Hounds, returning to the precise moment before her unit would make the foolish decision of venturing into the Afghan caves. However, the noise her unit makes at the front of the caves alert the cavefolk, and although they are able to get away relatively unscathed, Joan’s shoulder has been struck (ironically), and she is arranged to be deported back to London.
She almost doesn’t survive the resulting infection and fever.
Back in London Joan is introduced to Sherlock Holmes, an eccentric consulting detective with a powerful brother also working for Queen and country (“I’m sure we will be on the same page, Doctor Watson, as we are both servants of Her Majesty Victoria”) and Joan instantly knows that he must be a pain in the arse to live with. Yet she agrees to the flatshare, agrees to split the rent and the living room and the kitchen (though she’s given up the refrigerator as a lost cause), with Sherlock bloody Holmes, because miraculously, whenever she’s around that madman, Joan doesn’t feel like she’s being hunted down. Because, danger addict he is, Sherlock always sticks to the curves of time, whether intentional or not, and almost never approaches the angles.
That one time he does, both Joan and Sherlock nearly get killed, though not by the Hounds but by another madman. (The Hounds appear after the bomb goes off, and take Moriarty, feeding on his soul, ignoring Joan and Sherlock as they stagger away as fast as they could. Joan doesn’t feel sorry for Moriarty.)
At long last, Joan thinks she’s gotten off the hook, though she doesn’t dare try to travel through time anymore; that the creatures have finally forgot about her. She almost-celebrates by making risotto one evening and cracking open a bottle of wine. Sherlock looks at her with the interest he gives to one of those murdered corpses: the body of a Royal was found methodically slashed to pieces, and Joan just knows that he’s weighing the probability that it’s her handiwork.
She simply rolls her eyes and tells him, yes, she’s a Restorationist, what are you going to do about it? Sherlock sees through her bluff (he always does), says nothing, and surprisingly eats his risotto.
Then an old client of Sherlock comes to him again for help, and all hell breaks loose.
The mansion is in the countryside, the beautiful countryside full of long lines and curves, with no angle in sight. Joan almost relaxes when they get there, before she realizes that the house is full of corners. In the city, even the roundest corners are protected with spells and enchantments for the time-travellers, and Joan never feels the threat of a Hound in them, but here, out in the almost-wild, in the house where its owner has just been brutally murdered (or so they’ve been told), there is no protection, no enchantment.
Joan feels vulnerably exposed just being near to the mansion, and she hopes Sherlock will solve the case quickly and swiftly, without them even having to stay the night. (Nobody stays in the house, they are told. Not even the victim, who owns it, lives in it.) But that is an irrational wish, one that is completely dashed away when they see the body. The head has been severed from the body, and yet not a drop of blood is in sight, only a fine sheen of grotesque blue pus on the torso of the victim.
Baronet Sir Charles Baskerville died with his eyes wide open, face distorted and staring into the night with an expression of pure fear. Joan knows that expression immediately. She thinks she must have been wearing an exact replica when she was running away from the Hounds. Joan feels like fainting, and wonders whether Sherlock will think less of her if she does. She decides against it in the end, and murmurs to Sherlock, “There’s no question about this, Sherlock.”
“Oh? What do you think then, Joan?” Sherlock’s eyebrows are raised, but his tone is not condescending. Joan thinks he must have solved it already too.
“The Hounds,” she’s proud of herself for not stuttering at the mention. “Sir Charles must have been an unfortunate target of those accursed things. There’s no murder here.”
“No,” Sherlock sounds disappointed. “No there isn’t. But it doesn’t mean Sir Charles died of natural causes. The Hounds could not have found their target so easily when he is not an active time-traveller, unless he braves into time again, or in this case, someone has deliberately drawn the Hounds’ attention to him. He doesn’t live in the mansion; someone has drawn him to the mansion. Our question therefore is not how he died, but who wanted him dead.”
Joan is amazed (yet again) despite her rising panic. “How do you know he’s not an active time-traveller?” She asks just to get her mind off her impending doom. She’s figured that her past has to catch up with her sometime, and if that time is now, she’ll make good use of the time instead of sitting around and worrying.
Sherlock launches into a frenzied explanation that does indeed distract her by making her think hard, and surprises her by saying, “And the reason why you’ve not been attacked yet, Joan, is that for one, you haven’t been time travelling; I would know, if you did. And secondly, you’re with me. My presence around you is enough protection for you; Mycroft was adamant about the enchantments,” which he further elaborates by showing her his enchantment tattoos on the inner of his arms. Joan stares in wonder at the intricate designs and swirls imbued with all sorts of protection spells, and finally understands why she feels safe when she’s with Sherlock.
Then her mind climbs back out of the gutter it’s fallen into, but before she can voice her question, Sherlock cuts her to it with a “Don’t be an idiot, Joan; of course I’d know about your predicament with the Hounds. You are not exactly quiet when you sleep; quite the vocal sleeper, in fact.” Then he flounces off to find the person who’d wanted Sir Charles dead in such a nasty way. Joan forces her jaw to close and follows; and if she’s walking a bit closer to Sherlock, she won’t admit it and he doesn’t mention it.
They end up having to stay in the mansion for the night. That night Joan goes to the extreme measure of sharing the same room (all sharp, sharp corners) with Sherlock; he doesn’t mind, since he doesn’t even sleep. Joan manages to fall asleep to the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard, and in the morning, Sherlock is there reading in the wan light, and she feels a happiness that has never occurred to her before for still being alive. Sherlock lets her eat something before they are out in the open air again, searching for clues.
In the afternoon they meet a man called Jack Stapleton, and his sister, Beryl. They are new to the countryside, like Joan and Sherlock, and for all purposes, the two pretend to be a couple invited by Sir Charles’ nephew to the mansion for a relaxing weekend. Stapleton invites them to his house for tea, and Sherlock goes snooping, leaving Joan behind with their host and his sister.
When Stapleton goes outside to answer a call, Beryl Stapleton warns her in quiet tones, “Get out of that mansion and return to London if you know what’s good for you.” Her tone is not exactly threatening, but borders on fearful.
Joan’s interest is piqued. “Why?” She asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Beryl seems to hesitate. “There are,” she pauses again. “Things. In that house. Things you don’t understand. Things you wouldn’t want to meet. That house is full of angles. Do you know what that means?”
“No,” Joan feigns ignorance. “What does it mean?”
“It means Death. Forfeit of your soul. If you don’t want your soul to be devoured, go as far away as possible.” And then Beryl stops, doesn’t say another word on that subject when her brother gets back. Joan notices they do not look at all like brother and sister. (Suddenly she thinks of Harry, and promises to herself that once they get back to London, she will pay Harry a visit.)
There is a full moon, its crimson light painting the countryside a dark red. The red moonlight illuminates the road well enough; the flashlight Joan takes as a second thought is stuck uselessly at the back of her trousers, beside her gun. (She must remember to get a holster for it.) Sherlock is in one of his rare moods, all quiet and contemplating, setting off into the countryside at a brisk pace after dinner. Joan hurries after him, not willing to stay in the mansion alone.
They pass by Stapleton’s house, and suddenly Sherlock pauses. “Joan, I want you to go in and check up on Mrs. Stapleton.”
“Mrs. Stapleton? We didn’t meet a Mrs. Stapleton, did we, Sherlock?”
Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. “Joan, Beryl Stapleton is not Jack Stapleton’s sister. She’s his wife. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Well,” Joan pauses thoughtfully. “I thought there was something off about those two, but –” She frowns, looks back at the house. “You asked me to go and check up on her. Did you think she might be in any danger?”
“She is regularly abused by her husband. Of course she’s in danger. Though if he’s found out about her warning you –” Joan tunes out the rest of Sherlock’s sentence as she strolls up to Stapleton’s house and knocks. There is no answer. Joan knocks again, but receives the same result. “As I expect.” Sherlock murmurs as he comes up beside her. Paying no attention to his comment, Joan moves back a few paces, pushing Sherlock behind her, and kicks down the door.
The house is dark and empty. Sherlock brushes by her and into the house without hesitation. “Beryl? Beryl Stapleton?” He calls into the darkness. Joan hurries in after him, cursing the man in her mind. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s made a note about all possible exits. Joan grimaces; old habits are hard to break. “That’s a good habit, Joan. No need to erase it.” Sherlock comments idly before going up the stairs two at a time.
Joan wants to drag the man back down and give him a good lecture about not rushing into danger. Huffing out an exasperated breath, she glances about the house again and goes after him. Sherlock is standing at the landing before a door, shooting an impatient look at her. “Come on now,” he beckons, pointing at the door. Joan thinks almost wryly that the reason Sherlock cured her psychosomatic limp is to help him kick down doors.
The door is surprisingly easy to break down. There is a muffled yelp, in the quiet darkness, and Sherlock flicks on a light. On the bed, tied to the four posts, is Beryl Stapleton, mouth taped over with thick duct tape. She freezes momentarily, staring at them in alarm, and then resumes her struggle again, this time a clear message for them to hurry on and get her bindings off. Sherlock strides over and rips the duct tape off her mouth with no mercy. “Where is he?” He only asks.
Beryl Stapleton shakes her head, eyes brimming with fearful tears. “I don’t know. He,” she smiles gratefully, albeit wobbly, at Joan who unties the ropes binding her to the bedposts. “He was muttering something about the Baskervilles though. I’m afraid he may be going after the nephew. Please, you’ve got to stop him, Mr. Holmes. Jack’s going to lead him to his death, just like he did Sir Charles. He’s after the inheritance; Jack’s a Baskerville, born out of wedlock.” But Sherlock’s not listening to her anymore; he’s already gone in a whirl of his great coat, out the door and down the stairs. Joan is torn between following him and checking the woman for injuries. “Go after him,” Beryl says, nodding after Sherlock. “I’m fine. I’ve endured worse.”
No, it’s not fine at all, Joan thinks, giving her a perfunctory once-over. Fortunately Beryl is correct; she’s not harmed too badly, and Joan’s heart lifts a little in relief. She hesitates to leave the other woman alone though, but Beryl urges her to leave. “I’ll be fine, really. By the time Jack returns, the police will have arrived.” Her expression turns grim. “Enough is enough. No matter how much he threatens my brother, I’m not going to let him harm another person. I’m sorry; I should have done this earlier.”
Joan’s smile is tight with anger, though not directed at Beryl. “It’ll be fine. Sherlock will get him.”
(She does not know where Sherlock’s gone, but she has a hunch.)
Passing by the quagmire en route to the mansion, Joan stiffens when she feels another presence. “Sherlock?” She calls out cautiously into the red mist. There is no reply, no scathing remark, and fear has her suddenly in a choking hold, cutting her breath. Then adrenalin kicks in, replacing the fear. But it is too late; in that dizzying moment, a coarse rag of sorts covers her mouth, and Joan experiences that dizziness again.
Chloroform; she can recognize it instantly when the cloth is held over her nose. Joan struggles in vain, the other person’s hold stronger than hers. As she loses the battle and sinks into the darkness, she hears the hiss of a snarl at the edge of her consciousness.
The room is full of sharp corners.
Joan wakes up fully with a jolt, curling in on herself with an involuntary whimper. She knows she’s about to die. There’s no escape in this tiny room, no windows or shafts, and the door is completely barred shut.
She can see the beginning of her death: thin tendrils of smoke drifting out from these corners, out from nowhere. She’s heard all about it, how they appear in real life. It all begins with the smoke. She’s not tied up, the culprit knowing that there’s nothing she can do to save herself. Joan presses herself further into the floor. The bulge of her gun and flashlight dig in uncomfortably into her spine. The gun is becoming increasingly attractive.
Ghostly forms of canine-like creatures emerge from the smoke, blue pus oozing out on the ground they walk. Joan tries vainly to suppress her whimper of fear at the sight, but they cannot hear her, cannot see her. The Hounds rely purely on scent and it is the smell of her that draws them.
Joan meets Death again.
Once upon a time, man had the power in their souls to defeat these beings of evil. Death’s voice is a caress in her mind. Joan tries to dwell on the velvety quality of its voice rather than on the advancing Hounds. Death crouches beside her, its robe shifting upwards. Joan can see Death’s arms, and she is surprised to find out that they’re not in skeletal form. Black tattoos are visible on its pale, translucent skin, coiling and twisting like cursive letters. Joan has the vague recollection of having seen something similar before. It is poison to the Hounds, and they will die once they consume it. But man made a pact with the Elder Gods, and in exchange for protection, here Death seems to sneer. They gave up that power.
Do you trust me?
Would you believe when I tell you that I see that power in your soul? That you have nothing to fear of these accursed creatures?
Somehow, for a strange, strange second, Joan imagines it is Sherlock who is crouching beside her, who is wearing that (frankly ridiculous) robe, who is trying to reassure her. And unthinkingly, she nods, she believes, and she is fearless.
Time flies forward as the Hounds pounce, but Death is beside her, gripping her hand tightly as Joan gasps under the brutal assault. Her soul feels like it is being ripped into a million tiny shards. She doesn’t think she can piece it back together after this.
Joan tries to think of the war instead, of running through the streets of London with Sherlock. She focuses on the cold, freezing hand tightly holding onto hers, and abruptly laughs, the thought that Death is here in the flesh and blood being ridiculously funny under the circumstances.
The sound of her laughter unleashes something powerful from within her soul, and the Hounds’ agonized howls fill her ears and suddenly, suddenly, everything falls silent.
In the rapidly overwhelming silence, Death leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead. Well done, there is pride in its voice. Joan struggles to smile, but is too weak to do so. They will not be after you anymore.
A hand carefully tucks a lock of hair into her ear. Joan notes dimly that she has to get a haircut soon, and suddenly wonders about Sherlock. She pitches upward, trying to get up, but Death holds her down. Rest, you must rest.
“No! Sherlock –”
Will be fine.
Joan stops struggling after another moment, and drops heavily back down. She can feel the darkness trying to take over her mind, and glances back at Death again. Somehow she gets the impression that Death is smiling. Sleep if you want to. You are safe now.
“Yes well. Thank you.”
And the last thing Joan sees before she gives in to sleep is Death’s eyes, so pale and grey and startlingly similar to another pair of pale grey eyes she knows so well.
Joan wakes up to the sound of rhythmic tapping of the keyboard. She smiles before she even opens her eyes, and then abruptly remembers what has happened. She sits up too fast, and her headache makes itself known.
“Easy,” Sherlock’s voice is deep and reassuring. Joan grins weakly, one hand pressed to her forehead. “The police was on time for once. They have arrested Stapleton before his victim could arrive.” He says before she can conjure up the thought.
Nodding, Joan tilts her head as she considers the man. “So, Death, huh?”
Something shifts in Sherlock’s eyes, and his posture becomes stiff. “Yes, problem?” His wary tone makes Joan want to roll her eyes, but she refrains from it.
“Bit surprised, is all. You don’t seem like the Grim Reaper type.” She grins lopsidedly and half shrugs. “Thought Death would be more skeletal. Though you’re close.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply to that; he still hasn’t relaxed yet. Joan realizes that he’s thinking she might resent him, and rolls her eyes this time, reaching over to ruffle his curls. It seems appropriate. Sherlock loses his stony façade and scowls. “So how did you figure it out? About Stapleton, and about his wife?”
Sherlock relaxes again, and his lips quirk upwards as if to laugh at himself. Joan smiles, knowing he understands. Then he launches into yet another one of his detailed explanations about his deductions, and Joan thinks, in that moment, that everything's all right in the world.
Recipient:
disassembly_rsnAuthor: [to be revealed]
Characters/Pairings:fem!John, Sherlock; gen
Rating:PG-13 to be safe
Warnings:possible butchering of both Lovecraft and Sherlock universes, and some disturbing (?) scenes
Summary: Once upon a time man’s soul was very powerful, but then man made a pact with the Elder Gods, and in exchange for their protection, they gave up that power. Joan needs to recover that power if she wants to live, and Sherlock is more than who he seems to be.
Notes: Well
disassembly_rsn suggested a BBC version of A Study in Emerald, but uh somehow the end product was made with elements of the Hounds of the Baskervilles and Lovecraft’s creation of the Hounds of Tindalos. I’m not sure if this still counts as being in A Study in Emerald verse though. Uh, it’s my first time writing female John, and I hope this whole thing doesn’t disappoint (much). (Actually I don’t really know what I’ve written, but I hope you’ll enjoy.)
A common perception is that Joan Watson has been honorably discharged from the army because of an unfortunate encounter with the Afghan cavefolk that similar British soldiers in the past have not been able to conquer.
That is only part of the story.
The sudden hiss of a snarl catches her attention.
There is more snarling from behind her, and Joan is running in fear through the darkness. She is not chancing a look, not even a peek to confirm her suspicions, because she knows she will see nothing even if she does. The Hounds cannot be seen.
Looking back will only slow her down, and she needs all the time she can get.
Time; that is the bloody thing which got her into this mess in the first place.
The Hounds don’t exist in her own time; they can only travel through time, catch their prey in the angles of time, their unfortunate prey who did not travel through time by the correct route. Those desperate time-travellers who risk taking the angles, those who try to change history. And Joan is one of those time-travellers, the desperate ones. She needs to stop the cavefolk ambush that killed her entire unit but her, and by doing so, she’s caught the attention of the Hounds.
Joan knows they’re not just after her life, her blood. The army stories say that the Hounds live on people’s will, their souls. They say that once the Hounds catch scent of you, no amount of running can save you; it’s more merciful to kill yourself than to let them catch up with you.
But she isn’t ready to die yet. Nor is she giving up her soul just like that.
The darkness is blinding. Choking. She continues running on, eyes wide open even though there’s nothing that can be seen; with a sickening lurch of her heart, Joan realizes she’s taken the wrong turn, or the wrong road, or the wrong whatever. Whatever it is, she knows instinctively, like every good time-traveller, (though if she were one, she wouldn’t have been caught up in this mess), she knows she’s headed for a corner.
A corner in time can be dangerous. It is lethal when there are those death Hounds chasing on your tail.
At that moment, Joan feels like a cat, a helpless housecat, being chased by the big bad dogs next door. She wishes she could have been a cheetah, or a tiger, and makes a decision all at once.
In the space of a couple seconds as she scoots to a stop a few paces before the corner, Joan thinks she can see Death.
Then she closes her eyes and wishes herself back to her own time, hoping the horrid creatures won’t be able to follow her through. She panics when she smells, feels the rancid stench of the Hounds behind her, breathing down her neck.
God please,Joan involuntarily thinks, even though knowing there’s no God in their world, and even if there were one, It wouldn’t be of much help to her – nothing can stop the Hounds.
Still she thinks:
Please, God, let me live.
Miraculously, Joan survives the Hounds, returning to the precise moment before her unit would make the foolish decision of venturing into the Afghan caves. However, the noise her unit makes at the front of the caves alert the cavefolk, and although they are able to get away relatively unscathed, Joan’s shoulder has been struck (ironically), and she is arranged to be deported back to London.
She almost doesn’t survive the resulting infection and fever.
Back in London Joan is introduced to Sherlock Holmes, an eccentric consulting detective with a powerful brother also working for Queen and country (“I’m sure we will be on the same page, Doctor Watson, as we are both servants of Her Majesty Victoria”) and Joan instantly knows that he must be a pain in the arse to live with. Yet she agrees to the flatshare, agrees to split the rent and the living room and the kitchen (though she’s given up the refrigerator as a lost cause), with Sherlock bloody Holmes, because miraculously, whenever she’s around that madman, Joan doesn’t feel like she’s being hunted down. Because, danger addict he is, Sherlock always sticks to the curves of time, whether intentional or not, and almost never approaches the angles.
That one time he does, both Joan and Sherlock nearly get killed, though not by the Hounds but by another madman. (The Hounds appear after the bomb goes off, and take Moriarty, feeding on his soul, ignoring Joan and Sherlock as they stagger away as fast as they could. Joan doesn’t feel sorry for Moriarty.)
At long last, Joan thinks she’s gotten off the hook, though she doesn’t dare try to travel through time anymore; that the creatures have finally forgot about her. She almost-celebrates by making risotto one evening and cracking open a bottle of wine. Sherlock looks at her with the interest he gives to one of those murdered corpses: the body of a Royal was found methodically slashed to pieces, and Joan just knows that he’s weighing the probability that it’s her handiwork.
She simply rolls her eyes and tells him, yes, she’s a Restorationist, what are you going to do about it? Sherlock sees through her bluff (he always does), says nothing, and surprisingly eats his risotto.
Then an old client of Sherlock comes to him again for help, and all hell breaks loose.
The mansion is in the countryside, the beautiful countryside full of long lines and curves, with no angle in sight. Joan almost relaxes when they get there, before she realizes that the house is full of corners. In the city, even the roundest corners are protected with spells and enchantments for the time-travellers, and Joan never feels the threat of a Hound in them, but here, out in the almost-wild, in the house where its owner has just been brutally murdered (or so they’ve been told), there is no protection, no enchantment.
Joan feels vulnerably exposed just being near to the mansion, and she hopes Sherlock will solve the case quickly and swiftly, without them even having to stay the night. (Nobody stays in the house, they are told. Not even the victim, who owns it, lives in it.) But that is an irrational wish, one that is completely dashed away when they see the body. The head has been severed from the body, and yet not a drop of blood is in sight, only a fine sheen of grotesque blue pus on the torso of the victim.
Baronet Sir Charles Baskerville died with his eyes wide open, face distorted and staring into the night with an expression of pure fear. Joan knows that expression immediately. She thinks she must have been wearing an exact replica when she was running away from the Hounds. Joan feels like fainting, and wonders whether Sherlock will think less of her if she does. She decides against it in the end, and murmurs to Sherlock, “There’s no question about this, Sherlock.”
“Oh? What do you think then, Joan?” Sherlock’s eyebrows are raised, but his tone is not condescending. Joan thinks he must have solved it already too.
“The Hounds,” she’s proud of herself for not stuttering at the mention. “Sir Charles must have been an unfortunate target of those accursed things. There’s no murder here.”
“No,” Sherlock sounds disappointed. “No there isn’t. But it doesn’t mean Sir Charles died of natural causes. The Hounds could not have found their target so easily when he is not an active time-traveller, unless he braves into time again, or in this case, someone has deliberately drawn the Hounds’ attention to him. He doesn’t live in the mansion; someone has drawn him to the mansion. Our question therefore is not how he died, but who wanted him dead.”
Joan is amazed (yet again) despite her rising panic. “How do you know he’s not an active time-traveller?” She asks just to get her mind off her impending doom. She’s figured that her past has to catch up with her sometime, and if that time is now, she’ll make good use of the time instead of sitting around and worrying.
Sherlock launches into a frenzied explanation that does indeed distract her by making her think hard, and surprises her by saying, “And the reason why you’ve not been attacked yet, Joan, is that for one, you haven’t been time travelling; I would know, if you did. And secondly, you’re with me. My presence around you is enough protection for you; Mycroft was adamant about the enchantments,” which he further elaborates by showing her his enchantment tattoos on the inner of his arms. Joan stares in wonder at the intricate designs and swirls imbued with all sorts of protection spells, and finally understands why she feels safe when she’s with Sherlock.
Then her mind climbs back out of the gutter it’s fallen into, but before she can voice her question, Sherlock cuts her to it with a “Don’t be an idiot, Joan; of course I’d know about your predicament with the Hounds. You are not exactly quiet when you sleep; quite the vocal sleeper, in fact.” Then he flounces off to find the person who’d wanted Sir Charles dead in such a nasty way. Joan forces her jaw to close and follows; and if she’s walking a bit closer to Sherlock, she won’t admit it and he doesn’t mention it.
They end up having to stay in the mansion for the night. That night Joan goes to the extreme measure of sharing the same room (all sharp, sharp corners) with Sherlock; he doesn’t mind, since he doesn’t even sleep. Joan manages to fall asleep to the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard, and in the morning, Sherlock is there reading in the wan light, and she feels a happiness that has never occurred to her before for still being alive. Sherlock lets her eat something before they are out in the open air again, searching for clues.
In the afternoon they meet a man called Jack Stapleton, and his sister, Beryl. They are new to the countryside, like Joan and Sherlock, and for all purposes, the two pretend to be a couple invited by Sir Charles’ nephew to the mansion for a relaxing weekend. Stapleton invites them to his house for tea, and Sherlock goes snooping, leaving Joan behind with their host and his sister.
When Stapleton goes outside to answer a call, Beryl Stapleton warns her in quiet tones, “Get out of that mansion and return to London if you know what’s good for you.” Her tone is not exactly threatening, but borders on fearful.
Joan’s interest is piqued. “Why?” She asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Beryl seems to hesitate. “There are,” she pauses again. “Things. In that house. Things you don’t understand. Things you wouldn’t want to meet. That house is full of angles. Do you know what that means?”
“No,” Joan feigns ignorance. “What does it mean?”
“It means Death. Forfeit of your soul. If you don’t want your soul to be devoured, go as far away as possible.” And then Beryl stops, doesn’t say another word on that subject when her brother gets back. Joan notices they do not look at all like brother and sister. (Suddenly she thinks of Harry, and promises to herself that once they get back to London, she will pay Harry a visit.)
There is a full moon, its crimson light painting the countryside a dark red. The red moonlight illuminates the road well enough; the flashlight Joan takes as a second thought is stuck uselessly at the back of her trousers, beside her gun. (She must remember to get a holster for it.) Sherlock is in one of his rare moods, all quiet and contemplating, setting off into the countryside at a brisk pace after dinner. Joan hurries after him, not willing to stay in the mansion alone.
They pass by Stapleton’s house, and suddenly Sherlock pauses. “Joan, I want you to go in and check up on Mrs. Stapleton.”
“Mrs. Stapleton? We didn’t meet a Mrs. Stapleton, did we, Sherlock?”
Sherlock sighs exasperatedly. “Joan, Beryl Stapleton is not Jack Stapleton’s sister. She’s his wife. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Well,” Joan pauses thoughtfully. “I thought there was something off about those two, but –” She frowns, looks back at the house. “You asked me to go and check up on her. Did you think she might be in any danger?”
“She is regularly abused by her husband. Of course she’s in danger. Though if he’s found out about her warning you –” Joan tunes out the rest of Sherlock’s sentence as she strolls up to Stapleton’s house and knocks. There is no answer. Joan knocks again, but receives the same result. “As I expect.” Sherlock murmurs as he comes up beside her. Paying no attention to his comment, Joan moves back a few paces, pushing Sherlock behind her, and kicks down the door.
The house is dark and empty. Sherlock brushes by her and into the house without hesitation. “Beryl? Beryl Stapleton?” He calls into the darkness. Joan hurries in after him, cursing the man in her mind. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s made a note about all possible exits. Joan grimaces; old habits are hard to break. “That’s a good habit, Joan. No need to erase it.” Sherlock comments idly before going up the stairs two at a time.
Joan wants to drag the man back down and give him a good lecture about not rushing into danger. Huffing out an exasperated breath, she glances about the house again and goes after him. Sherlock is standing at the landing before a door, shooting an impatient look at her. “Come on now,” he beckons, pointing at the door. Joan thinks almost wryly that the reason Sherlock cured her psychosomatic limp is to help him kick down doors.
The door is surprisingly easy to break down. There is a muffled yelp, in the quiet darkness, and Sherlock flicks on a light. On the bed, tied to the four posts, is Beryl Stapleton, mouth taped over with thick duct tape. She freezes momentarily, staring at them in alarm, and then resumes her struggle again, this time a clear message for them to hurry on and get her bindings off. Sherlock strides over and rips the duct tape off her mouth with no mercy. “Where is he?” He only asks.
Beryl Stapleton shakes her head, eyes brimming with fearful tears. “I don’t know. He,” she smiles gratefully, albeit wobbly, at Joan who unties the ropes binding her to the bedposts. “He was muttering something about the Baskervilles though. I’m afraid he may be going after the nephew. Please, you’ve got to stop him, Mr. Holmes. Jack’s going to lead him to his death, just like he did Sir Charles. He’s after the inheritance; Jack’s a Baskerville, born out of wedlock.” But Sherlock’s not listening to her anymore; he’s already gone in a whirl of his great coat, out the door and down the stairs. Joan is torn between following him and checking the woman for injuries. “Go after him,” Beryl says, nodding after Sherlock. “I’m fine. I’ve endured worse.”
No, it’s not fine at all, Joan thinks, giving her a perfunctory once-over. Fortunately Beryl is correct; she’s not harmed too badly, and Joan’s heart lifts a little in relief. She hesitates to leave the other woman alone though, but Beryl urges her to leave. “I’ll be fine, really. By the time Jack returns, the police will have arrived.” Her expression turns grim. “Enough is enough. No matter how much he threatens my brother, I’m not going to let him harm another person. I’m sorry; I should have done this earlier.”
Joan’s smile is tight with anger, though not directed at Beryl. “It’ll be fine. Sherlock will get him.”
(She does not know where Sherlock’s gone, but she has a hunch.)
Passing by the quagmire en route to the mansion, Joan stiffens when she feels another presence. “Sherlock?” She calls out cautiously into the red mist. There is no reply, no scathing remark, and fear has her suddenly in a choking hold, cutting her breath. Then adrenalin kicks in, replacing the fear. But it is too late; in that dizzying moment, a coarse rag of sorts covers her mouth, and Joan experiences that dizziness again.
Chloroform; she can recognize it instantly when the cloth is held over her nose. Joan struggles in vain, the other person’s hold stronger than hers. As she loses the battle and sinks into the darkness, she hears the hiss of a snarl at the edge of her consciousness.
The room is full of sharp corners.
Joan wakes up fully with a jolt, curling in on herself with an involuntary whimper. She knows she’s about to die. There’s no escape in this tiny room, no windows or shafts, and the door is completely barred shut.
She can see the beginning of her death: thin tendrils of smoke drifting out from these corners, out from nowhere. She’s heard all about it, how they appear in real life. It all begins with the smoke. She’s not tied up, the culprit knowing that there’s nothing she can do to save herself. Joan presses herself further into the floor. The bulge of her gun and flashlight dig in uncomfortably into her spine. The gun is becoming increasingly attractive.
Ghostly forms of canine-like creatures emerge from the smoke, blue pus oozing out on the ground they walk. Joan tries vainly to suppress her whimper of fear at the sight, but they cannot hear her, cannot see her. The Hounds rely purely on scent and it is the smell of her that draws them.
Joan meets Death again.
Once upon a time, man had the power in their souls to defeat these beings of evil. Death’s voice is a caress in her mind. Joan tries to dwell on the velvety quality of its voice rather than on the advancing Hounds. Death crouches beside her, its robe shifting upwards. Joan can see Death’s arms, and she is surprised to find out that they’re not in skeletal form. Black tattoos are visible on its pale, translucent skin, coiling and twisting like cursive letters. Joan has the vague recollection of having seen something similar before. It is poison to the Hounds, and they will die once they consume it. But man made a pact with the Elder Gods, and in exchange for protection, here Death seems to sneer. They gave up that power.
Do you trust me?
Would you believe when I tell you that I see that power in your soul? That you have nothing to fear of these accursed creatures?
Somehow, for a strange, strange second, Joan imagines it is Sherlock who is crouching beside her, who is wearing that (frankly ridiculous) robe, who is trying to reassure her. And unthinkingly, she nods, she believes, and she is fearless.
Time flies forward as the Hounds pounce, but Death is beside her, gripping her hand tightly as Joan gasps under the brutal assault. Her soul feels like it is being ripped into a million tiny shards. She doesn’t think she can piece it back together after this.
Joan tries to think of the war instead, of running through the streets of London with Sherlock. She focuses on the cold, freezing hand tightly holding onto hers, and abruptly laughs, the thought that Death is here in the flesh and blood being ridiculously funny under the circumstances.
The sound of her laughter unleashes something powerful from within her soul, and the Hounds’ agonized howls fill her ears and suddenly, suddenly, everything falls silent.
In the rapidly overwhelming silence, Death leans over and presses a kiss to her forehead. Well done, there is pride in its voice. Joan struggles to smile, but is too weak to do so. They will not be after you anymore.
A hand carefully tucks a lock of hair into her ear. Joan notes dimly that she has to get a haircut soon, and suddenly wonders about Sherlock. She pitches upward, trying to get up, but Death holds her down. Rest, you must rest.
“No! Sherlock –”
Will be fine.
Joan stops struggling after another moment, and drops heavily back down. She can feel the darkness trying to take over her mind, and glances back at Death again. Somehow she gets the impression that Death is smiling. Sleep if you want to. You are safe now.
“Yes well. Thank you.”
And the last thing Joan sees before she gives in to sleep is Death’s eyes, so pale and grey and startlingly similar to another pair of pale grey eyes she knows so well.
Joan wakes up to the sound of rhythmic tapping of the keyboard. She smiles before she even opens her eyes, and then abruptly remembers what has happened. She sits up too fast, and her headache makes itself known.
“Easy,” Sherlock’s voice is deep and reassuring. Joan grins weakly, one hand pressed to her forehead. “The police was on time for once. They have arrested Stapleton before his victim could arrive.” He says before she can conjure up the thought.
Nodding, Joan tilts her head as she considers the man. “So, Death, huh?”
Something shifts in Sherlock’s eyes, and his posture becomes stiff. “Yes, problem?” His wary tone makes Joan want to roll her eyes, but she refrains from it.
“Bit surprised, is all. You don’t seem like the Grim Reaper type.” She grins lopsidedly and half shrugs. “Thought Death would be more skeletal. Though you’re close.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply to that; he still hasn’t relaxed yet. Joan realizes that he’s thinking she might resent him, and rolls her eyes this time, reaching over to ruffle his curls. It seems appropriate. Sherlock loses his stony façade and scowls. “So how did you figure it out? About Stapleton, and about his wife?”
Sherlock relaxes again, and his lips quirk upwards as if to laugh at himself. Joan smiles, knowing he understands. Then he launches into yet another one of his detailed explanations about his deductions, and Joan thinks, in that moment, that everything's all right in the world.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 06:57 pm (UTC)I loved this fresh and very, very creative take on The Hound of the Baskervilles and your soul-eating hunting Hounds were scary and gave me the feeling they were always right behind me, indeed. Your universe with all its sharp corners and angles was very carefully created and I loved the twist of Sherlock being Death so much! <3
Also, I don't usually care much for genderbending fic, but your Joan was really believable. :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-16 08:14 pm (UTC)Incredibly inventive and unique, and definitely deserving of at least a few more read-throughs. Thoroughly enjoyable!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 01:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-17 02:18 am (UTC)Re: bending time with Death
Date: 2011-12-17 06:12 am (UTC)Your choice of crossovers - Lovecraft's Hounds story with Doyle's Hound story as part of an Emerald crossover - was very clever. I'd forgotten all about the Hounds of Tindalos. Very well done, you!
"So, Death, huh?"
"Yes, problem?"
Nice exchange, that. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-18 03:15 pm (UTC)Loved this bit at the beginning: "Joan instantly knows that he must be a pain in the arse to live with. Yet she agrees to the flatshare, agrees to split the rent and the living room and the kitchen (though she’s given up the refrigerator as a lost cause), with Sherlock bloody Holmes, because miraculously, whenever she’s around that madman, Joan doesn’t feel like she’s being hunted down. Because, danger addict he is, Sherlock always sticks to the curves of time, whether intentional or not, and almost never approaches the angles."
But it really is just the tip of the iceberg in a gorgeously written, wildly inventive story with loads of fantastic images and beautiful turns of phrase. Love it!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-19 08:55 pm (UTC)