DW/SH Fic: The Case of the Purloined Sailor
Title: The Case of the Purloined Sailor
Author: nancybrown
Fandoms: Doctor Who/Sherlock Holmes
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Madame Vastra, Jenny
Rating: PG
Words: 750
Warnings: character death (OC)
Summary: On the hunt for a killer, Holmes runs afoul of a vigilante.
AN: For sariagray. It's a bit longer than three sentences. Unbetaed and written while slightly tipsy, so please point out any errors you see.
***
The hansom cab clattered over the damp stones of the street, shaking them to and fro.
"I assure you, Inspector, we will find the murderer in the Rookery of St. Giles. Having examined the evidence, he is of average height, with a slight limp not unlike our friend Dr. Watson. However, the distinctive signs of a merchant mariner tell me he will be located in one of the establishments they frequent, and as only so many men will be left-handed, the culprit will quickly be obvious."
We disembarked two streets away from where Holmes said he would find the man, so as not to startle him with our approach. I had my trusty pistol at the ready, and even Lestrade appeared eager for the chase.
As we passed through the nearest dark, stinking alleyway, I heard a shout: a woman's voice. We three broke into a quick trot, although I heard my friend mutter, "Not alarm. A warning."
We rounded the corner to be greeted by the sight of a man -- average build, leaning on a cane not dissimilar to my own -- being beheaded in one clean stroke. The smooth, meaty sound was dampened by the fog, like a butcher's efficient cut on a soggy morning. The head tottered, rolled, and fell over, with a warm gush of blood rather than a spray.
His assailant was my height, garbed in a deep cloak like some adherent to a cult, but the arm that held the blade -- ah! such an arm! -- was green and scaled, even as it pulled the sword back and licked along its length like a savage. To one side stood a woman, plain but pretty, in skirts and a waistcoat, and holding another sword like a second in a duel.
"Stop!" shouted Lestrade, rather unconvincingly. After all, the fellow was quite clearly dead. He fell to the grimy alley, as if to confirm his state.
The cloaked figure took one step back into a defensive posture, but a glance to us made it lower its sword. Despite our own weapons, we were clearly not considered a threat to whatever awful beast hid secreted in those shadows. And then to my utter surprise, a woman's rich tones came from the dark hood: "The redoubtable Sherlock Holmes, if I'm not mistaken."
"You have me at a disadvantage, madame, and I don't say that often." Holmes's eyes stayed fixed on her sword.
"I imagine not. Fear not. This man at my feet, if you can call him a man, is responsible for the deaths of three girls and a young man."
The merchant mariner? I looked to Holmes, but he already took in the man's clothing and the visible tattoo. He merely nodded.
Lestrade said, "We had thought to bring him to justice. Now, miss, we will have to bring you both in for questioning."
The young lady with the killer grew apprehensive, but the woman in the cloak laughed gently. "I would be delighted to see you try. Jenny?"
Her companion had pulled out something from a pocket, and threw an indistinct shape our way. I ducked, pulling Holmes away, but the device hit the cobbles and sprayed not explosives but a thick gas, blinding if not choking. As we scrambled back to our feet to give chase, their much lighter boots dashed away and were gone.
"Oh, excellent," said Holmes. Instead of giving chase as Lestrade and I had done, he examined the thrown device. "A mixture of dry ice and water, held apart by simple glass. Beautifully simple."
His voice suggested he was far more impressed than hurt.
"Holmes?" asked Lestrade. "We must find the killer."
"You may look, Lestrade, but she has done us a favour by killing this murderer, and stealing our sailor from the noose. There are ten thousand women in London who bear the name Jenny. If you think you can locate this one, I wish you the best of luck." He pocketed the remains of the gas bomb. "Watson, put your gun away. Do us a kindness and declare the headless man to be deceased, and we can take his body back to Scotland Yard for poor Inspector Lestrade to deal with."
At Lestrade's fallen face, Holmes admonished him. "Cheer up. This man will not kill again."
"But what about the woman? Will she?"
Holmes smiled faintly. "She might. And if she does, I promise you, she and I will be meeting again, and I will bring her to you myself."
***
The End
***
Author: nancybrown
Fandoms: Doctor Who/Sherlock Holmes
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Madame Vastra, Jenny
Rating: PG
Words: 750
Warnings: character death (OC)
Summary: On the hunt for a killer, Holmes runs afoul of a vigilante.
AN: For sariagray. It's a bit longer than three sentences. Unbetaed and written while slightly tipsy, so please point out any errors you see.
***
The hansom cab clattered over the damp stones of the street, shaking them to and fro.
"I assure you, Inspector, we will find the murderer in the Rookery of St. Giles. Having examined the evidence, he is of average height, with a slight limp not unlike our friend Dr. Watson. However, the distinctive signs of a merchant mariner tell me he will be located in one of the establishments they frequent, and as only so many men will be left-handed, the culprit will quickly be obvious."
We disembarked two streets away from where Holmes said he would find the man, so as not to startle him with our approach. I had my trusty pistol at the ready, and even Lestrade appeared eager for the chase.
As we passed through the nearest dark, stinking alleyway, I heard a shout: a woman's voice. We three broke into a quick trot, although I heard my friend mutter, "Not alarm. A warning."
We rounded the corner to be greeted by the sight of a man -- average build, leaning on a cane not dissimilar to my own -- being beheaded in one clean stroke. The smooth, meaty sound was dampened by the fog, like a butcher's efficient cut on a soggy morning. The head tottered, rolled, and fell over, with a warm gush of blood rather than a spray.
His assailant was my height, garbed in a deep cloak like some adherent to a cult, but the arm that held the blade -- ah! such an arm! -- was green and scaled, even as it pulled the sword back and licked along its length like a savage. To one side stood a woman, plain but pretty, in skirts and a waistcoat, and holding another sword like a second in a duel.
"Stop!" shouted Lestrade, rather unconvincingly. After all, the fellow was quite clearly dead. He fell to the grimy alley, as if to confirm his state.
The cloaked figure took one step back into a defensive posture, but a glance to us made it lower its sword. Despite our own weapons, we were clearly not considered a threat to whatever awful beast hid secreted in those shadows. And then to my utter surprise, a woman's rich tones came from the dark hood: "The redoubtable Sherlock Holmes, if I'm not mistaken."
"You have me at a disadvantage, madame, and I don't say that often." Holmes's eyes stayed fixed on her sword.
"I imagine not. Fear not. This man at my feet, if you can call him a man, is responsible for the deaths of three girls and a young man."
The merchant mariner? I looked to Holmes, but he already took in the man's clothing and the visible tattoo. He merely nodded.
Lestrade said, "We had thought to bring him to justice. Now, miss, we will have to bring you both in for questioning."
The young lady with the killer grew apprehensive, but the woman in the cloak laughed gently. "I would be delighted to see you try. Jenny?"
Her companion had pulled out something from a pocket, and threw an indistinct shape our way. I ducked, pulling Holmes away, but the device hit the cobbles and sprayed not explosives but a thick gas, blinding if not choking. As we scrambled back to our feet to give chase, their much lighter boots dashed away and were gone.
"Oh, excellent," said Holmes. Instead of giving chase as Lestrade and I had done, he examined the thrown device. "A mixture of dry ice and water, held apart by simple glass. Beautifully simple."
His voice suggested he was far more impressed than hurt.
"Holmes?" asked Lestrade. "We must find the killer."
"You may look, Lestrade, but she has done us a favour by killing this murderer, and stealing our sailor from the noose. There are ten thousand women in London who bear the name Jenny. If you think you can locate this one, I wish you the best of luck." He pocketed the remains of the gas bomb. "Watson, put your gun away. Do us a kindness and declare the headless man to be deceased, and we can take his body back to Scotland Yard for poor Inspector Lestrade to deal with."
At Lestrade's fallen face, Holmes admonished him. "Cheer up. This man will not kill again."
"But what about the woman? Will she?"
Holmes smiled faintly. "She might. And if she does, I promise you, she and I will be meeting again, and I will bring her to you myself."
***
The End
***