221B Week, Day 8 bonus: After the Fall
BBC Sherlock metafic
Rating 12 (non-explicit but gratuitous violence)
Summary. In January, Morelindo very bravely organised a Sherlock meet-up in London, which I and many others attended and enjoyed. The result, however, of taking my alter ego anywhere was inevitable....
It was a tragic accident, everyone agreed afterwards. No blame attached to anyone. She wasn't the only one of the party to find the Hunterian Museum more disturbing than they expected. As the afternoon wore on, several of her friends had heard her say the arrays of specimens in jars were getting a bit much. But surely a haemophobic should have known to avoid the corner with the video playing? The one that showed surgery in glorious technicolour? She must have been feeling faint, they reckoned afterwards, gone to lean against the railings of the balcony. And somehow - how? - toppled over them. She was a tall woman, a clumsy woman, perhaps leaning out too far to catch a glimpse of some of the exhibit cases stretching from floor to ceiling. Or perhaps she'd surreptitiously been trying to take an illicit photo?
An accident was surely the only possibility, even if it was hard to explain. No-one had noticed her right before her fall, among the crowds of visitors, but who would want to harm her? Who would choose to target a mildly eccentric middle-aged woman?
It was pure misadventure, surely. There could be no other possible reason why, between the display of fetal walruses and the skeleton of Charles Byrne, the Irish giant, there now lay Mary Sutherland's broken body.
Rating 12 (non-explicit but gratuitous violence)
Summary. In January, Morelindo very bravely organised a Sherlock meet-up in London, which I and many others attended and enjoyed. The result, however, of taking my alter ego anywhere was inevitable....
It was a tragic accident, everyone agreed afterwards. No blame attached to anyone. She wasn't the only one of the party to find the Hunterian Museum more disturbing than they expected. As the afternoon wore on, several of her friends had heard her say the arrays of specimens in jars were getting a bit much. But surely a haemophobic should have known to avoid the corner with the video playing? The one that showed surgery in glorious technicolour? She must have been feeling faint, they reckoned afterwards, gone to lean against the railings of the balcony. And somehow - how? - toppled over them. She was a tall woman, a clumsy woman, perhaps leaning out too far to catch a glimpse of some of the exhibit cases stretching from floor to ceiling. Or perhaps she'd surreptitiously been trying to take an illicit photo?
An accident was surely the only possibility, even if it was hard to explain. No-one had noticed her right before her fall, among the crowds of visitors, but who would want to harm her? Who would choose to target a mildly eccentric middle-aged woman?
It was pure misadventure, surely. There could be no other possible reason why, between the display of fetal walruses and the skeleton of Charles Byrne, the Irish giant, there now lay Mary Sutherland's broken body.