prelude through part two-b
Rating: PG-13(ish)
Pairing(s): Implied established H/W
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, ACD. :'C
Summary: AU crossover with Marble Hornets // the Slenderman mythos.
Word Count: 2150
{prelude}
There are some things beyond our mortal ken.
Even beyond Holmes, who seems more than mere human. The willful and unorthodox demigod would have to concede on some points, this case having loosed the deluge of many.
It was late September when we received the first reports. I had been shaken, unable to stay my nausea. I took my leave for some time during the viewing of the first body, I am ashamed to admit. The accounts themselves were repugnant on so many levels. Paired with the first-hand experience, it became unspeakable. There was such a bestial and unnatural cast to such slayings. And of children, no less. I scarce desired to believe that human nature was capable of such, yet there was no desirable alternative.
This case had a chill of foreboding to it. Perhaps, this is an invention of mine knowing in retrospect that I should have been more mindful, more attuned to my instinct. There is both a time and place to allow the intervention of emotion, it seems. I wish with every fibre of my being that I had done so but it is too late now.
Perhaps it would be best to begin at the beginning, as it were. I pray forgiveness for the unreliability of my account, yet it seems there is so much I do not recall. I feel as if I have lost portions of time. Most unsettling. Moreover, things I would swear under oath to have recorded are missing entirely, with no detectable trace. Stranger still, there are writings within these bound journals that are in a crude hand and foreign tongue, not my own. I can feel my heart beat faster as I record this.
It terrifies me and I often fear for my mental stability. I ought to commit myself to bedlam, yet I have become so embroiled in these eldritch happenings that I must see things through to the end. More than I fear for myself, I fear for all those upon whom this horror may be loosed.
{break in the pattern}
Before they escape me, I must catalogue the facts. They are few but they will serve the reader well.
I
The first is possibly the most important; I freely admit that I may be biased on this front. They say Sherlock Holmes is missing, that he has been gone for a week's time now. Many claim that he is dead. They are misinformed. I do not know where he is, but he is most certainly alive.
II
I receive notes, typically two daily, from him. Mrs. Hudson finds them pushed under the door. She delivers them with my morning tea and evening meal. They often smell of tobacco, strong spirits and something akin to soil. This originally caused me to believe that he may be living in the loft above our favourite pub. However, upon investigation, this does not seem to be so.
He assures me, in his cramped untidy scrawl, that he is well and I try to trust him. Sometimes he gives me leads to follow, errands to run for him. I do as he says, unfailingly. It's becoming harder to trust blindly, I fear for him. The notes have grown thin and worn under my hands. Nightly, I fan them out across my desk. I read and reread. Finding patterns, isolating anomalies, playing Holmes. His language has become more spare, more utilitarian. Often, there are sentence fragments or thoughts that trail off, whereas his earlier letters were polished and read like the product of several drafts.
He is running. I know it.
III
I do not know with absolute assurance, but I believe that he has been within the walls of our shared apartment several times since his apparent absence. My evidence: One evening, after several consecutive days being unable to sleep for the horrible night-terrors that overtook me, I drifted off in the armchair by the fireplace, holding my book. I half-awakened to a blanket being draped over my person, the barest touch of kiss to my temple and a whispered voice, his voice, “Stay safe.” I do not believe this was a dream. At the very least, I hope this was not a dream. There is no need for me to recount every such instance but there are three more. I trust the reader will take me at my word and value my modesty and private nature.
IV
He has promised me we will meet again. The following is transcribed exactly from a note I received from him:
Dearest Watson,
I know how you fret, Mother Hen, but do not continue to seek me. It would place an undue danger upon us both. I am well, I swear it. It is your state, rather, that I am concerned with. See to it that you get appropriate amounts of rest. You know as well as I what the effects of fatigue are on mental acuity and reaction time. If you will not comply for your own good or for my peace of mind, at the very least do so for the furtherment of this investigation. If it helps you to sleep at night, please know that we will see one another again soon.
Yours Only,
Holmes
It was signed without flourish on coarse butcher's paper and delivered in a manilla envelope bearing only my surname written in his tight script as proof of its origin and destination. It was inelegant, hasty, earnest. And, by God, I believe him.
V
There have been five killings thus far. All of them children under 12. Four of the bodies were found in light to heavily wooded areas. The fifth was found at the mouth of a waste-water drainage pipe in Surrey. Because of this break in the pattern, one might be inclined to expect that it was some sort of copy-cat killing, to throw police from the trail of the true murderer. In fact, that was my own first suspicion. However, upon viewing the body and witnessing personally the terrible peculiarity with which she had been slain, I cannot believe that it was any other than the original.
As to the modus operandi. Well, it is hardly an easy or pleasant thing to recount. However to impress upon the reader the gravity of this case, there is no benefit in delicacy, so I will state it outright and as clinically as I can manage. All five children died from exsanguination via multiple deep lesions to the torso and abdomen in particular. The unearthly bit is the nature of said lesions. If you'll pardon the crudeness of language, the skin seemed to be unzipped and utterly flayed from the body. Underlying muscle and bone were cut through with a grotesque precision that not even medical instruments could hope to achieve. Internal organs were removed and rearranged, spilling from the bodies in gruesome Arabesques.
VI
The fifth victim was one of the Baker Street Irregulars. A tough, ruddy-faced boy of only nine with a talent for prying, scabby knees and the industrious spirit of a hardened pawnbroker. After we received the reports from Lestrade, Holmes left. It was not a messy affair.
For his part, Holmes showed no emotion, no sign of fear as he gathered essentials into an old rucksack that used to be mine. He clasped my shoulders tight and, when my eyes fixed upon his, kissed me soundly. With a low, urgent voice he made me swear to follow his instructions.
“Watson, do not do a thing without my lead. Not a thing. Do you swear it.”
And I did. We held each other for a moment, he whispered fiercely that he would not be leaving me. Yet, as I watched his retreating form, narrow, angular shoulders fading into the crowd, it certainly felt as if he had.
VII
As I have mentioned before, I see to his affairs in his absence. He runs, hides, thinks. As always, his letters are frightfully lucid. Strings of logic, deduction, calculation all spelled out so that I have no occasion to question the needfulness of his orders - he knows me too well.
I follow the leads he cannot chase. We have a contact in Greater London, who I have dubbed with the pseudonym A. in want of a proper name. A. has made himself available for several visits now. Until I called upon him the first time, I did not suspect the degree of his mental illness. His letters seemed sound; fearful yet sound. Holmes cautioned me that his behaviour was “off.” At the time, I recall, I scoffed that Holmes should deign any man “off.”
The first peculiarity was the overabundance of lit gas-lanterns that A. had hung in the rented room in which he was staying, despite the streaming daylight outside. Singularly, I noticed that the windows had been carefully obscured with newspapers tacked to the frames and the curtains (made of a thick, Oriental brocade) were drawn. I did not beg an explanation, rather A. offered:
“He cannot see that I am here,” his tone was phobic, solicitous, “I cannot let Him find me here.”
I stared baldly and wondered why Holmes had sent me to this place. I could not possibly imagine what bearing this man's psychological distress could possibly have on the investigation until I saw the drawings.
VIII
The desk was littered with many charcoal renderings of a man, unnaturally tall with distorted heteromorphic limbs jointed and unfolding in manners that defied nature. In more than a few of these works, the tall, slim figure was bent over a small child in a threatening parody of an embrace. I broke in a cold sweat despite the near-sweltering warmth radiating from the lanterns. I made my excuses and took my leave quickly.
It was not until our next meeting that I possessed the courage to ask about the drawings. A. grew pale and spoke in torrents. I begged him to slow his speech and grasped his arm to comfort him. His pulse was racing and I did not want to continue this vein of questioning at the expense of his health. I led him to the settee, we sat in silence and I waited for his breathing to become regular. I offered a mild sedative to steady him, for his constitution was so fragile that any sort of overexcitement could destroy a possible lynchpin to this case. He refused, informing me that if he slept, He would come.
We sat together some time and he told me of a creature taking the form of a man, clad in a suit. He spoke of ersatz limbs and sacrosanct powers. I could not let him see my fear, I could not allow this opportunity to be lost because of my lack of control.
VIV
A. confessed to having seen a murder outside of England, that of a small girl. He was hunting and saw blood. Curiosity compelled him and he traced it to a scene that haunts him even now. He saw it - Him, the Slender Man - as he dismantled and sated himself upon the child, ribbons of blood in her blonde ringlets, shredded pink taffeta party dress surrounding her like parcel-paper.
And so he became the hunted.
A. has been running for months, crossing seas and city-limits in futile attempts to outrun the creature. Trailing death in his wake. I believe it is A. who has brought this virulent plague upon London.
I thanked him for his time and made offer of quarters and protection, not something Holmes said to do but something I felt compelled by human decency to volunteer. He vehemently refused and became agitated once more. His eyes rolled back into his head and he shook with violent tremors. Words in eldritch tongues spilled from him and he began to foam at the mouth. In short coherent spells, he complained of a horrible sound and clutched at his ear.
I could not bear the thought of losing such an important link nor could I bear to see a man in such agony, so I sedated him. His colour returned to normal and his muscles relaxed. He slept normally. I remained with him for several hours' time, monitoring his REM cycles and heart-rate. Sensing no apparent threat to his person, I left as the morphine began to lose its hold.
X
I received a letter from A. in the post, the very next day. When I opened it, I saw that it was one of his more graphic depictions of the Slender Man dissecting the child. As I unfolded it, my terror grew. Writ in dried gouts of blood were several symbols, utterly alien in nature and a single discernible phrase: HE IS DEAD
I must go back to the rented room.
→
Original thread here.
Pairing(s): Implied established H/W
Disclaimer: I'm sorry, ACD. :'C
Summary: AU crossover with Marble Hornets // the Slenderman mythos.
Word Count: 2150
{prelude}
There are some things beyond our mortal ken.
Even beyond Holmes, who seems more than mere human. The willful and unorthodox demigod would have to concede on some points, this case having loosed the deluge of many.
It was late September when we received the first reports. I had been shaken, unable to stay my nausea. I took my leave for some time during the viewing of the first body, I am ashamed to admit. The accounts themselves were repugnant on so many levels. Paired with the first-hand experience, it became unspeakable. There was such a bestial and unnatural cast to such slayings. And of children, no less. I scarce desired to believe that human nature was capable of such, yet there was no desirable alternative.
This case had a chill of foreboding to it. Perhaps, this is an invention of mine knowing in retrospect that I should have been more mindful, more attuned to my instinct. There is both a time and place to allow the intervention of emotion, it seems. I wish with every fibre of my being that I had done so but it is too late now.
Perhaps it would be best to begin at the beginning, as it were. I pray forgiveness for the unreliability of my account, yet it seems there is so much I do not recall. I feel as if I have lost portions of time. Most unsettling. Moreover, things I would swear under oath to have recorded are missing entirely, with no detectable trace. Stranger still, there are writings within these bound journals that are in a crude hand and foreign tongue, not my own. I can feel my heart beat faster as I record this.
It terrifies me and I often fear for my mental stability. I ought to commit myself to bedlam, yet I have become so embroiled in these eldritch happenings that I must see things through to the end. More than I fear for myself, I fear for all those upon whom this horror may be loosed.
{break in the pattern}
Before they escape me, I must catalogue the facts. They are few but they will serve the reader well.
I
The first is possibly the most important; I freely admit that I may be biased on this front. They say Sherlock Holmes is missing, that he has been gone for a week's time now. Many claim that he is dead. They are misinformed. I do not know where he is, but he is most certainly alive.
II
I receive notes, typically two daily, from him. Mrs. Hudson finds them pushed under the door. She delivers them with my morning tea and evening meal. They often smell of tobacco, strong spirits and something akin to soil. This originally caused me to believe that he may be living in the loft above our favourite pub. However, upon investigation, this does not seem to be so.
He assures me, in his cramped untidy scrawl, that he is well and I try to trust him. Sometimes he gives me leads to follow, errands to run for him. I do as he says, unfailingly. It's becoming harder to trust blindly, I fear for him. The notes have grown thin and worn under my hands. Nightly, I fan them out across my desk. I read and reread. Finding patterns, isolating anomalies, playing Holmes. His language has become more spare, more utilitarian. Often, there are sentence fragments or thoughts that trail off, whereas his earlier letters were polished and read like the product of several drafts.
He is running. I know it.
III
I do not know with absolute assurance, but I believe that he has been within the walls of our shared apartment several times since his apparent absence. My evidence: One evening, after several consecutive days being unable to sleep for the horrible night-terrors that overtook me, I drifted off in the armchair by the fireplace, holding my book. I half-awakened to a blanket being draped over my person, the barest touch of kiss to my temple and a whispered voice, his voice, “Stay safe.” I do not believe this was a dream. At the very least, I hope this was not a dream. There is no need for me to recount every such instance but there are three more. I trust the reader will take me at my word and value my modesty and private nature.
IV
He has promised me we will meet again. The following is transcribed exactly from a note I received from him:
Dearest Watson,
I know how you fret, Mother Hen, but do not continue to seek me. It would place an undue danger upon us both. I am well, I swear it. It is your state, rather, that I am concerned with. See to it that you get appropriate amounts of rest. You know as well as I what the effects of fatigue are on mental acuity and reaction time. If you will not comply for your own good or for my peace of mind, at the very least do so for the furtherment of this investigation. If it helps you to sleep at night, please know that we will see one another again soon.
Yours Only,
Holmes
It was signed without flourish on coarse butcher's paper and delivered in a manilla envelope bearing only my surname written in his tight script as proof of its origin and destination. It was inelegant, hasty, earnest. And, by God, I believe him.
V
There have been five killings thus far. All of them children under 12. Four of the bodies were found in light to heavily wooded areas. The fifth was found at the mouth of a waste-water drainage pipe in Surrey. Because of this break in the pattern, one might be inclined to expect that it was some sort of copy-cat killing, to throw police from the trail of the true murderer. In fact, that was my own first suspicion. However, upon viewing the body and witnessing personally the terrible peculiarity with which she had been slain, I cannot believe that it was any other than the original.
As to the modus operandi. Well, it is hardly an easy or pleasant thing to recount. However to impress upon the reader the gravity of this case, there is no benefit in delicacy, so I will state it outright and as clinically as I can manage. All five children died from exsanguination via multiple deep lesions to the torso and abdomen in particular. The unearthly bit is the nature of said lesions. If you'll pardon the crudeness of language, the skin seemed to be unzipped and utterly flayed from the body. Underlying muscle and bone were cut through with a grotesque precision that not even medical instruments could hope to achieve. Internal organs were removed and rearranged, spilling from the bodies in gruesome Arabesques.
VI
The fifth victim was one of the Baker Street Irregulars. A tough, ruddy-faced boy of only nine with a talent for prying, scabby knees and the industrious spirit of a hardened pawnbroker. After we received the reports from Lestrade, Holmes left. It was not a messy affair.
For his part, Holmes showed no emotion, no sign of fear as he gathered essentials into an old rucksack that used to be mine. He clasped my shoulders tight and, when my eyes fixed upon his, kissed me soundly. With a low, urgent voice he made me swear to follow his instructions.
“Watson, do not do a thing without my lead. Not a thing. Do you swear it.”
And I did. We held each other for a moment, he whispered fiercely that he would not be leaving me. Yet, as I watched his retreating form, narrow, angular shoulders fading into the crowd, it certainly felt as if he had.
VII
As I have mentioned before, I see to his affairs in his absence. He runs, hides, thinks. As always, his letters are frightfully lucid. Strings of logic, deduction, calculation all spelled out so that I have no occasion to question the needfulness of his orders - he knows me too well.
I follow the leads he cannot chase. We have a contact in Greater London, who I have dubbed with the pseudonym A. in want of a proper name. A. has made himself available for several visits now. Until I called upon him the first time, I did not suspect the degree of his mental illness. His letters seemed sound; fearful yet sound. Holmes cautioned me that his behaviour was “off.” At the time, I recall, I scoffed that Holmes should deign any man “off.”
The first peculiarity was the overabundance of lit gas-lanterns that A. had hung in the rented room in which he was staying, despite the streaming daylight outside. Singularly, I noticed that the windows had been carefully obscured with newspapers tacked to the frames and the curtains (made of a thick, Oriental brocade) were drawn. I did not beg an explanation, rather A. offered:
“He cannot see that I am here,” his tone was phobic, solicitous, “I cannot let Him find me here.”
I stared baldly and wondered why Holmes had sent me to this place. I could not possibly imagine what bearing this man's psychological distress could possibly have on the investigation until I saw the drawings.
VIII
The desk was littered with many charcoal renderings of a man, unnaturally tall with distorted heteromorphic limbs jointed and unfolding in manners that defied nature. In more than a few of these works, the tall, slim figure was bent over a small child in a threatening parody of an embrace. I broke in a cold sweat despite the near-sweltering warmth radiating from the lanterns. I made my excuses and took my leave quickly.
It was not until our next meeting that I possessed the courage to ask about the drawings. A. grew pale and spoke in torrents. I begged him to slow his speech and grasped his arm to comfort him. His pulse was racing and I did not want to continue this vein of questioning at the expense of his health. I led him to the settee, we sat in silence and I waited for his breathing to become regular. I offered a mild sedative to steady him, for his constitution was so fragile that any sort of overexcitement could destroy a possible lynchpin to this case. He refused, informing me that if he slept, He would come.
We sat together some time and he told me of a creature taking the form of a man, clad in a suit. He spoke of ersatz limbs and sacrosanct powers. I could not let him see my fear, I could not allow this opportunity to be lost because of my lack of control.
VIV
A. confessed to having seen a murder outside of England, that of a small girl. He was hunting and saw blood. Curiosity compelled him and he traced it to a scene that haunts him even now. He saw it - Him, the Slender Man - as he dismantled and sated himself upon the child, ribbons of blood in her blonde ringlets, shredded pink taffeta party dress surrounding her like parcel-paper.
And so he became the hunted.
A. has been running for months, crossing seas and city-limits in futile attempts to outrun the creature. Trailing death in his wake. I believe it is A. who has brought this virulent plague upon London.
I thanked him for his time and made offer of quarters and protection, not something Holmes said to do but something I felt compelled by human decency to volunteer. He vehemently refused and became agitated once more. His eyes rolled back into his head and he shook with violent tremors. Words in eldritch tongues spilled from him and he began to foam at the mouth. In short coherent spells, he complained of a horrible sound and clutched at his ear.
I could not bear the thought of losing such an important link nor could I bear to see a man in such agony, so I sedated him. His colour returned to normal and his muscles relaxed. He slept normally. I remained with him for several hours' time, monitoring his REM cycles and heart-rate. Sensing no apparent threat to his person, I left as the morphine began to lose its hold.
X
I received a letter from A. in the post, the very next day. When I opened it, I saw that it was one of his more graphic depictions of the Slender Man dissecting the child. As I unfolded it, my terror grew. Writ in dried gouts of blood were several symbols, utterly alien in nature and a single discernible phrase: HE IS DEAD
I must go back to the rented room.
→
Original thread here.