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catko....that I did for a fic-tree challenge at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
universe_the a while ago, where you take a sentence from another person's ficlet and include it in your own, and so on, and so on. I bolded the borrowed sentence, since that was part of the fun.
Buffy/Sherlock Crossover (related to this fic here)
Rated G
Xander wandered moodily into the front room of the London suite they were still occupying, who knew for how much longer. Yeah, it was better than dying in an Apocalypse. And this whole "work with New Scotland Yard and famous detectives on half-drained corpses" was kind of entertaining. But still. He was lonely. He was homesick. (Even if that home was just a smoking hole in the ground.) He was lonely. (Yeah, lonely twice.)
He looked back as he heard the suite door open and Willow walk in. "Hi, honey!" she chirped. "How goes?" Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a wave of longing for when they were kids, stupid naive kids. He strode to her and swept her up into a huge, tight hug. Then he began kissing her face, her throat, her shoulder.
"Oooomph!" Willow pressed herself away from him firmly, yet gently. "Hey, no! Xan, I'm sorry." She looked him in the eye. "You’re a great pal, but we can’t, be more than friends.”
Xander pulled her close again and sighed. "I know, Will, I know. But right now I really need a friend."
.........
It's not a uncommon facial expression for his friend, but the extra gleam in his eyes says enough. How well Lestrade remembers, even decades later, that Rupert Giles relished a mystery, a challenge, a dust-up. Sure, he might be clothed in the world-weariness of a middle-aged school librarian, but the ol' Ripper was still lurking beneath, craving an adventure.
Which was useful, if everything Sherlock had just blurted out was true: that Giles might have some ... expertise, shall we say, in bizarre crimes. Certainly he had dabbled in the occult, if memory served--he'd started hanging out with that weird crew just after Lestrade's brother had left to join the army. And no doubt there was something weird about this case. Five victims now, found all across London, with half their blood drained out and no other connection between them.
But to have his old childhood friend, returning to England after years in California, and his consulting detective-slash-major irritant speak so casually of VAMPIRES? Yeah, well, it beggared description.
Nevertheless, Lestrade hurried to catch up with the three men striding ahead of him, watching the tweed jacket lean toward the sweeping Belstaff, gesticulating avidly, while the stalwart Watson trundled alongside. A case is a case, and a solved case is best. So he was definitely along for the ride.
.......
Mycroft Holmes paused with his gloved finger hovering over the keypad at the gated entry. He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling unfamiliar doubt flood his mind. He willed himself not to glance back toward the black car at the curb. He hadn't chosen to engage Anthea in his trust; he had no right to request her support now.
Nor did he specifically require it; he knew from whence the uncharacteristic hesitation came. It had been many years since he had pressed those numbers--well, of course, he had never pressed these numbers; the code was changed weekly--many years since he had crossed this threshold under the words "Mundus Quoque Non Opus Est Scire, et Non Erit." The world does not need to know, and it doesn't. Indeed, it had not been necessary for him to do so; however this current flurry of serial killings, the involvement of his brother, and the surprising appearance of a former Watcher made this visit inevitable.
In any case, hesitation and doubt were irrational, unproductive. He pressed the requisite numbers with aplomb, and pushed the gate open to enter the headquarters of the Watchers' Council.
........
Giles watched out the window as his beloved London flashed by. Much was familiar: the old buildings layered over with restaurant, fast-food, and clothing store signs; the black taxicabs amassing; the red double-decker buses lumbering from corner to corner. Much was unfamiliar, including the names of said stores, the apparent multi-culturalism of the throngs on the street, and the fact that he was sitting at ease in the front seat of a police car.
His old mate, now a Detective Inspector with the Met, glanced at him from the driver's seat. "The Old Smoke, eh? How's she looking?"
"Rather fine, actually. Never realized it before, but suppose I was a bit homesick, all those years."
Lestrade maneuvered the car to the curb and threw him a grin. "Let's see how those warm feelings last when you're surrounded by caution tape," he said, gesturing to the front of the unassuming brick building, where caution tape criss-crossed the front door and the side gate. "And remember, you volunteered for this assignment."
Bearing down upon the side gate were Sherlock and John, having just alit from a cab. John's mouth was moving in an apparently irritable rant, as he gestured with bills in one hand at Lestrade's car pulled up behind. Lestrade let out a bark of laughter. "Offered them a ride, didn't I? But Sherlock never will. Guess John's sick of footing the cab bill." Giles began a humorous aside, when he caught his eye on four figures standing by the gate. Aha. Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn. He stopped himself from making a comment; he only looked at his people, shook his head, and hid his grin. "Guess we're getting the band back together again," he thought, with pride, as he exited the car to check out the crime scene.
..........
John shoved the bills, change from the cabby, into his jacket pocket and strode after Sherlock, still muttering about the ridiculousness of spending their minimal cash--his minimal cash--on a cab when Lestrade was driving to exactly the same place they were going, at exactly the same time, leaving from exactly the same spot, and oh, yes, there he was now.
He was ignored, like expected. Sherlock was intently heading toward the group of young people hovering by side gate of the Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club, peering through the caution tape.
Behind him, he heard the doors of Lestrade's car open and close, and the footsteps of the detective inspector and his old friend, that Rupert bloke, who had the sense to take a free ride when it was offered him, pattering towards them.
Meanwhile, Sherlock had pulled up to the group of four, who turned and looked, with expressions of great astonishment, not at the glowering consulting detective and his disgruntled companion, but past them to Lestrade and Giles. They stood, gaping--blonde, brunette, redhead, and lanky chap--as the four men surrounded them. Giles cleared his throat and with a tone of pride that was evident even to John, said, "Well, hello, you lot. Here to see the crime scene? Well, let's have at it."
Sherlock scanned the stunned faces, looked to Giles, nodded, and, opening the gate, batted at the yellow tape and pressed onward toward the crime scene. Giles followed him, gesturing at the youthful four--still gaping, and John and Lestrade exchanged puzzled glances as they moved to follow them.
universe_the a while ago, where you take a sentence from another person's ficlet and include it in your own, and so on, and so on. I bolded the borrowed sentence, since that was part of the fun.Buffy/Sherlock Crossover (related to this fic here)
Rated G
Xander wandered moodily into the front room of the London suite they were still occupying, who knew for how much longer. Yeah, it was better than dying in an Apocalypse. And this whole "work with New Scotland Yard and famous detectives on half-drained corpses" was kind of entertaining. But still. He was lonely. He was homesick. (Even if that home was just a smoking hole in the ground.) He was lonely. (Yeah, lonely twice.)
He looked back as he heard the suite door open and Willow walk in. "Hi, honey!" she chirped. "How goes?" Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a wave of longing for when they were kids, stupid naive kids. He strode to her and swept her up into a huge, tight hug. Then he began kissing her face, her throat, her shoulder.
"Oooomph!" Willow pressed herself away from him firmly, yet gently. "Hey, no! Xan, I'm sorry." She looked him in the eye. "You’re a great pal, but we can’t, be more than friends.”
Xander pulled her close again and sighed. "I know, Will, I know. But right now I really need a friend."
.........
It's not a uncommon facial expression for his friend, but the extra gleam in his eyes says enough. How well Lestrade remembers, even decades later, that Rupert Giles relished a mystery, a challenge, a dust-up. Sure, he might be clothed in the world-weariness of a middle-aged school librarian, but the ol' Ripper was still lurking beneath, craving an adventure.
Which was useful, if everything Sherlock had just blurted out was true: that Giles might have some ... expertise, shall we say, in bizarre crimes. Certainly he had dabbled in the occult, if memory served--he'd started hanging out with that weird crew just after Lestrade's brother had left to join the army. And no doubt there was something weird about this case. Five victims now, found all across London, with half their blood drained out and no other connection between them.
But to have his old childhood friend, returning to England after years in California, and his consulting detective-slash-major irritant speak so casually of VAMPIRES? Yeah, well, it beggared description.
Nevertheless, Lestrade hurried to catch up with the three men striding ahead of him, watching the tweed jacket lean toward the sweeping Belstaff, gesticulating avidly, while the stalwart Watson trundled alongside. A case is a case, and a solved case is best. So he was definitely along for the ride.
.......
Mycroft Holmes paused with his gloved finger hovering over the keypad at the gated entry. He closed his eyes momentarily, feeling unfamiliar doubt flood his mind. He willed himself not to glance back toward the black car at the curb. He hadn't chosen to engage Anthea in his trust; he had no right to request her support now.
Nor did he specifically require it; he knew from whence the uncharacteristic hesitation came. It had been many years since he had pressed those numbers--well, of course, he had never pressed these numbers; the code was changed weekly--many years since he had crossed this threshold under the words "Mundus Quoque Non Opus Est Scire, et Non Erit." The world does not need to know, and it doesn't. Indeed, it had not been necessary for him to do so; however this current flurry of serial killings, the involvement of his brother, and the surprising appearance of a former Watcher made this visit inevitable.
In any case, hesitation and doubt were irrational, unproductive. He pressed the requisite numbers with aplomb, and pushed the gate open to enter the headquarters of the Watchers' Council.
........
Giles watched out the window as his beloved London flashed by. Much was familiar: the old buildings layered over with restaurant, fast-food, and clothing store signs; the black taxicabs amassing; the red double-decker buses lumbering from corner to corner. Much was unfamiliar, including the names of said stores, the apparent multi-culturalism of the throngs on the street, and the fact that he was sitting at ease in the front seat of a police car.
His old mate, now a Detective Inspector with the Met, glanced at him from the driver's seat. "The Old Smoke, eh? How's she looking?"
"Rather fine, actually. Never realized it before, but suppose I was a bit homesick, all those years."
Lestrade maneuvered the car to the curb and threw him a grin. "Let's see how those warm feelings last when you're surrounded by caution tape," he said, gesturing to the front of the unassuming brick building, where caution tape criss-crossed the front door and the side gate. "And remember, you volunteered for this assignment."
Bearing down upon the side gate were Sherlock and John, having just alit from a cab. John's mouth was moving in an apparently irritable rant, as he gestured with bills in one hand at Lestrade's car pulled up behind. Lestrade let out a bark of laughter. "Offered them a ride, didn't I? But Sherlock never will. Guess John's sick of footing the cab bill." Giles began a humorous aside, when he caught his eye on four figures standing by the gate. Aha. Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn. He stopped himself from making a comment; he only looked at his people, shook his head, and hid his grin. "Guess we're getting the band back together again," he thought, with pride, as he exited the car to check out the crime scene.
..........
John shoved the bills, change from the cabby, into his jacket pocket and strode after Sherlock, still muttering about the ridiculousness of spending their minimal cash--his minimal cash--on a cab when Lestrade was driving to exactly the same place they were going, at exactly the same time, leaving from exactly the same spot, and oh, yes, there he was now.
He was ignored, like expected. Sherlock was intently heading toward the group of young people hovering by side gate of the Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club, peering through the caution tape.
Behind him, he heard the doors of Lestrade's car open and close, and the footsteps of the detective inspector and his old friend, that Rupert bloke, who had the sense to take a free ride when it was offered him, pattering towards them.
Meanwhile, Sherlock had pulled up to the group of four, who turned and looked, with expressions of great astonishment, not at the glowering consulting detective and his disgruntled companion, but past them to Lestrade and Giles. They stood, gaping--blonde, brunette, redhead, and lanky chap--as the four men surrounded them. Giles cleared his throat and with a tone of pride that was evident even to John, said, "Well, hello, you lot. Here to see the crime scene? Well, let's have at it."
Sherlock scanned the stunned faces, looked to Giles, nodded, and, opening the gate, batted at the yellow tape and pressed onward toward the crime scene. Giles followed him, gesturing at the youthful four--still gaping, and John and Lestrade exchanged puzzled glances as they moved to follow them.
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