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the_deepbluesea. This is a continuation of a story I started here and here for different challenges; it may not make sense if you don't skim those parts. I realize Part One is in present tense and Parts Two and Three are past; I'll fix that someday if I ever put it all together...
The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, post Season 7.
Crossover: with Sherlock BBC
Words: 1253
Prompt list: betrayal, escape, insecure, impulsive, distraction, forgotten, unexpected, beauty, kindness
history, lost, victim
i
Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of the Lancaster and milled around for a minute, insecure. It had been all well and good to be powering out of the hotel room with that impulsive stride of determination, with this unsolved crime of the people half-drained of their blood. But now they each realized they weren't exactly sure what they were going to do next.Out of habit the other three looked at Buffy, who tossed her head and then grinned. "Okay, I think I speak for everyone when I say 'what the f-uhhhh." She glanced at Dawn, who rolled her eyes. "Puhleeze. You'd think that after averting the Apocalypse, I could handle a few swear words." She stood glaring, with her hands on her hips. Willow, ever the peacemaker, waved The Times in between the sisters as a distraction, saying, "We're going to look into these deaths, right? Then let's go to where the last victim was found." She peered at the paper. "Hmm….Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club. I'll go ask for directions." As she moved across the lobby to the Concierge desk, Xander ambled back from where he'd darted to a side table, pastry in hand. Dawn rolled her eyes again. "Is that all you're going to do is eat, eat, eat? It's getting dizzgusting!"
Xander waved the pastry in her face. "Quiet, little one. Far be it from you to judge how I choose to cope with my place in history. Betrayal, disaster, escape…breakfast sausage called bangers--it's all part of the New Life of Xander Harris."
Dawn opened her mouth but before she could speak, Willow bustled up looking eager. "Okay, guys, I found out how to get there; it's so easy, we can walk there. And see a few sights along the way! Our first day in London! This is so great!" Buffy looked at her, askance. "Glad you're happy, Will, but let's not forget we might be finding something we don't want. I mean, Sunnydale was one thing, but what if all of London is a Hellmouth? That's a lotta hell, and a lotta mouth." She gazed speculatively out to the busy street. "Oh well. Never let it be said that we backed down from a challenge, right, Slayerettes?" She headed toward the door, with the other three following in her wake, Willow waving the map and pointing off to the right.
II
Lestrade rocked back on his heels and stared at the map taped to the whiteboard. "It's looks like a normal crime scene tracker," he sighed. "But for fuck's sake. Vampires? I may be just a common or garden copper, but in all my years on the Force I've never seen anything that would hint at--what am I saying. Like I believe this is what is happening? Christ." He ran his hand through his hair and glared accusingly at Giles, also perusing the map. "It's you and Sherlock got me thinking this way. There must be another explanation. Just a nice, ordinary, perverted serial killer, who drains half the blood from his victim, sure. But not this." His hand circled the map and ended up gesturing at one of the colorful pins. Giles peered closer. "Well I certainly can't imagine what could be significant about …" he squinted… "Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club." He looked at his old friend with a mischievous air.
From behind them came a loud snort as Sherlock stalked closer, a paper coffee cup in his hand, John stepping behind him, also holding a paper cup. "You can't imagine? Can't IMAGINE? How, may I ask, in that quaint little contretemps in Sunnyvale--" ("Sunnydale," Interjected Giles mildly) "--WATCHER Giles--" ("Just Giles, or Rupert is fine") "--does imagination come into it? Better, is it not, to observe? To deduce? To explain??"
Giles looked amused as he leaned back on the conference table and waved at the map. "Well then, do carry on," he said. He was beginning to realize that, despite the grim news of the serial possible-partial-vampire-killings, he was quite enjoying all of this. Not the least was the surprising comfort of all the English accents around him, even Sherlock's supercilious tones. "The point is not the individual locations," intoned Sherlock, pacing in front of the map. "It's the pattern."
John moved closer and stared at the pins dotted around the City. "All central London, within, hmm, 5 kilometers diameter of Hyde Park. All in areas guaranteed to be fairly empty at night--tennis club, university, parks, gardens."
Sherlock huffed, took a gulp of coffee, and grimaced dramatically. "You see but you do not observe. Yes, those elements are crucial to the placement of the crimes, but those conditions could be found anywhere. What could not be found anywhere is--" he paused with a dramatic flourish of his arm -- "access. Access to the underground network of tunnels, here, here, here, here, and HERE!" He stabbed his finger at spots near the red-tipped pins.
Lestrade glanced at him and rocked forward, hands on hips, to look at the map. "Well, Sherlock, I can't argue with your logic. I do know that in at least three of these locations, there is an access, parallel to the Underground entrance, to a disused level of the subway system. It's a magnet for vagrants, homeless, junkies, and criminals, forgotten people. It's hell to police, but we do try."
Sherlock made an expression of disdain. "Yes, 'try,' you do try," he said, and exchanged a glance with Lestrade that, to Giles's admittedly heightened senses, seemed rather charged. The two held the look, and Sherlock's mouth softened somewhat, before he turned away. "At any rate, it stands to reason that any type of band or gang that wishes to … well… avoid the daylight would wish to have access to an underground lair. Easy to access, easy to get lost in. However. We won't discover much more standing here drinking horrible coffee," he stated. "To the scene!" He waved imperiously toward John, and strode out the door.
Lestrade watched them go, with a look of almost kindness, then caught Giles observing him. He shrugged, then leaned over and clapped Giles on the shoulder. "Expect the unexpected, eh, mate? Well if there's one thing I have learned in my travels, it's don't let Sherlock alone at a crime scene, even one that's been cleared for hours. Shall we go?"
III
After what seemed to Anthea like an interminable drive through the outskirts of London, they finally pulled up in front of a large building with a high wrought-iron fence and a kind of mysterious sense of beauty and history quite out of step with its quiet suburban tree-lined street. Anthea again felt a sense of disquiet as she watched her boss straighten his lapels and move to step out of the car, and she parted her lips to offer a word of support, or warning, she's not sure which. Mycroft noticed her movement and held up his hand. "Leave it, as I requested," he murmured, "If all goes well, you never need know. And if it doesn't--" he stepped out onto the curb, leaned back in, and fixed her with a look, "If it doesn't go well, it really won't matter at all." He closed the car door, and she watched him through her window as he walked up to the iron gate, and reached out to touch the keypad under the sign that read "The Council."
the_deepbluesea. This is a continuation of a story I started here and here for different challenges; it may not make sense if you don't skim those parts. I realize Part One is in present tense and Parts Two and Three are past; I'll fix that someday if I ever put it all together...The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, post Season 7.
Crossover: with Sherlock BBC
Words: 1253
Prompt list: betrayal, escape, insecure, impulsive, distraction, forgotten, unexpected, beauty, kindness
history, lost, victim
i
Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn stepped out of the elevator into the lobby of the Lancaster and milled around for a minute, insecure. It had been all well and good to be powering out of the hotel room with that impulsive stride of determination, with this unsolved crime of the people half-drained of their blood. But now they each realized they weren't exactly sure what they were going to do next.Out of habit the other three looked at Buffy, who tossed her head and then grinned. "Okay, I think I speak for everyone when I say 'what the f-uhhhh." She glanced at Dawn, who rolled her eyes. "Puhleeze. You'd think that after averting the Apocalypse, I could handle a few swear words." She stood glaring, with her hands on her hips. Willow, ever the peacemaker, waved The Times in between the sisters as a distraction, saying, "We're going to look into these deaths, right? Then let's go to where the last victim was found." She peered at the paper. "Hmm….Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club. I'll go ask for directions." As she moved across the lobby to the Concierge desk, Xander ambled back from where he'd darted to a side table, pastry in hand. Dawn rolled her eyes again. "Is that all you're going to do is eat, eat, eat? It's getting dizzgusting!"
Xander waved the pastry in her face. "Quiet, little one. Far be it from you to judge how I choose to cope with my place in history. Betrayal, disaster, escape…breakfast sausage called bangers--it's all part of the New Life of Xander Harris."
Dawn opened her mouth but before she could speak, Willow bustled up looking eager. "Okay, guys, I found out how to get there; it's so easy, we can walk there. And see a few sights along the way! Our first day in London! This is so great!" Buffy looked at her, askance. "Glad you're happy, Will, but let's not forget we might be finding something we don't want. I mean, Sunnydale was one thing, but what if all of London is a Hellmouth? That's a lotta hell, and a lotta mouth." She gazed speculatively out to the busy street. "Oh well. Never let it be said that we backed down from a challenge, right, Slayerettes?" She headed toward the door, with the other three following in her wake, Willow waving the map and pointing off to the right.
II
Lestrade rocked back on his heels and stared at the map taped to the whiteboard. "It's looks like a normal crime scene tracker," he sighed. "But for fuck's sake. Vampires? I may be just a common or garden copper, but in all my years on the Force I've never seen anything that would hint at--what am I saying. Like I believe this is what is happening? Christ." He ran his hand through his hair and glared accusingly at Giles, also perusing the map. "It's you and Sherlock got me thinking this way. There must be another explanation. Just a nice, ordinary, perverted serial killer, who drains half the blood from his victim, sure. But not this." His hand circled the map and ended up gesturing at one of the colorful pins. Giles peered closer. "Well I certainly can't imagine what could be significant about …" he squinted… "Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club." He looked at his old friend with a mischievous air.
From behind them came a loud snort as Sherlock stalked closer, a paper coffee cup in his hand, John stepping behind him, also holding a paper cup. "You can't imagine? Can't IMAGINE? How, may I ask, in that quaint little contretemps in Sunnyvale--" ("Sunnydale," Interjected Giles mildly) "--WATCHER Giles--" ("Just Giles, or Rupert is fine") "--does imagination come into it? Better, is it not, to observe? To deduce? To explain??"
Giles looked amused as he leaned back on the conference table and waved at the map. "Well then, do carry on," he said. He was beginning to realize that, despite the grim news of the serial possible-partial-vampire-killings, he was quite enjoying all of this. Not the least was the surprising comfort of all the English accents around him, even Sherlock's supercilious tones. "The point is not the individual locations," intoned Sherlock, pacing in front of the map. "It's the pattern."
John moved closer and stared at the pins dotted around the City. "All central London, within, hmm, 5 kilometers diameter of Hyde Park. All in areas guaranteed to be fairly empty at night--tennis club, university, parks, gardens."
Sherlock huffed, took a gulp of coffee, and grimaced dramatically. "You see but you do not observe. Yes, those elements are crucial to the placement of the crimes, but those conditions could be found anywhere. What could not be found anywhere is--" he paused with a dramatic flourish of his arm -- "access. Access to the underground network of tunnels, here, here, here, here, and HERE!" He stabbed his finger at spots near the red-tipped pins.
Lestrade glanced at him and rocked forward, hands on hips, to look at the map. "Well, Sherlock, I can't argue with your logic. I do know that in at least three of these locations, there is an access, parallel to the Underground entrance, to a disused level of the subway system. It's a magnet for vagrants, homeless, junkies, and criminals, forgotten people. It's hell to police, but we do try."
Sherlock made an expression of disdain. "Yes, 'try,' you do try," he said, and exchanged a glance with Lestrade that, to Giles's admittedly heightened senses, seemed rather charged. The two held the look, and Sherlock's mouth softened somewhat, before he turned away. "At any rate, it stands to reason that any type of band or gang that wishes to … well… avoid the daylight would wish to have access to an underground lair. Easy to access, easy to get lost in. However. We won't discover much more standing here drinking horrible coffee," he stated. "To the scene!" He waved imperiously toward John, and strode out the door.
Lestrade watched them go, with a look of almost kindness, then caught Giles observing him. He shrugged, then leaned over and clapped Giles on the shoulder. "Expect the unexpected, eh, mate? Well if there's one thing I have learned in my travels, it's don't let Sherlock alone at a crime scene, even one that's been cleared for hours. Shall we go?"
III
After what seemed to Anthea like an interminable drive through the outskirts of London, they finally pulled up in front of a large building with a high wrought-iron fence and a kind of mysterious sense of beauty and history quite out of step with its quiet suburban tree-lined street. Anthea again felt a sense of disquiet as she watched her boss straighten his lapels and move to step out of the car, and she parted her lips to offer a word of support, or warning, she's not sure which. Mycroft noticed her movement and held up his hand. "Leave it, as I requested," he murmured, "If all goes well, you never need know. And if it doesn't--" he stepped out onto the curb, leaned back in, and fixed her with a look, "If it doesn't go well, it really won't matter at all." He closed the car door, and she watched him through her window as he walked up to the iron gate, and reached out to touch the keypad under the sign that read "The Council."
no subject
Date: 2013-07-04 08:35 am (UTC)