One of those ideas that just could not keep away. I realize I have about ten other different things to be working on in this fandom already. That's because I love it so much!
Disclaimer: Neither Frankenstein nor Sherlock are mine. The latter is the intellectual property of Mary Wollstonecroft Shelley and whatever legal representation if any she may have, though it should be noted that this mode of Victor is Danny Boyle/Nick Dear's as portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch in the recent stage adaptation showcased at the National Theatre. Sherlock Holmes is the property of the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though this incarnation is the property of Stephen Moffat/Mark Gatiss, as portrayed by -sigh- Benedict Cumberbatch in the recent BBC-1 series.
Solitary And Abhorred
Sherlock Holmes could not say that he had ever heard of William Shakespeare. After the initial reaction of shock and horror, John Watson had decided to take his friend to the theatre for an evening showing of Hamlet. He also had the good sense to bring Sarah, and make sure that Sherlock's seat was a good ten rows away from the date.
Though the play had shown some promise in the first twenty minutes, Sherlock, who hadn't grasped that Hamlet was not about the murder but the internal machinations of Hamlet's mind, got Bored. The woman playing Gertrude was almost as young as the girl playing Ophelia, and therefore completely unbelievable because of her lack of life experience, and the conceit of having the same actor playing Claudius and Hamlet Elder was tiresome and annoying. And the lighting hurt Sherlock's head, though not quite as much as the period decor.
The show picked up a little in the middle when Hamlet stabbed the annoying old man and then proceeded to have paroxysms of guilt and fear. Then it got boring again. Sherlock was out of his seat by intermission, having only stayed sitting that long because he didn't want to embarrass John.
He declined buying anything at the bar outside, and instead just stood there deducing those who did feel like sinking their money into overpriced champagne.
And that's where he met Victor Frankenstein, resident of London for three years. The young doctor was also standing near the bar without partaking of anything, and as Sherlock watched, he started towards him.
"Hello," Sherlock said neutrally. "Did you wish to speak to me?"
"Actually, I was going to get a drink," said the young man with a pronounced, but not unintelligible German accent. His eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. "You must be just as bored with the play as I am, if you are so desperate to strike up conversation with a complete stranger."
"Guilty as charged. I only came because my friend thought it would be a nice change of pace."
"Is she very beautiful, this friend?" he laughed knowingly. Sherlock's gaze went to the door.
"Oh. Well no. It's not like that at all. John is... well, he just wanted me to see a play," said the world's only consulting detective awkwardly. "Aren't you getting a drink?"
"I don't think that all the liquor on this whole island could compel me to sit through the rest of this dismal production. I have cadavers I could be attending to..."
"Cadavers?" Sherlock said, interest suddenly piqued. "Who are you, and what is it you do?"
"Pardon my manners. My name is Victor Frankenstein. I'm a doctor. I work in autopsies, though, would you believe it, a doctor who looks at people he can't help."
"Not as great an anomaly as you would believe," Sherlock said with amusement. "But you enjoy your work?"
"Immensely," Victor said with the same amount of casualness he would have used if he were to say that the play was horrid. "You have some interest in the field, though?"
"I dabble in it. My work's more in the line of criminology, my name's Sherlock Holmes by the way, but it's still very proactive work, so I know my way around a body," Sherlock said. "Have you ever been to Bart's Morgue? Best stiffs this side of the Channel."
"Well, there you are," said a familiar voice, and John Watson joined the conversation. "I was worried that you'd gotten yourself kicked out of the theatre. Who's this, then?"
"Victor Frankenstein," Sherlock said with rare enthusiasm. "He's a doctor. Victor, this is John Watson. He's a doctor too."
"Not practicing at the moment, I'm afraid. Good to meet you," John said with a quiet smile, and extended a hand that was met by a callused and acid-burnt hand. "What do you think of the play?"
"Boring," Victor and Sherlock said simultaneously.
"Victor and I won't stick around for the second part, I fear," Sherlock said. "We're stepping out for a bite."
"Sherlock..."
"Have fun with Sarah," said Sherlock, obviously anxious to be alone with his new acquaintance. John sighed, and then left to rejoin his girlfriend.
"How did you know that I was going to leave?" Victor asked, slightly dumbfounded.
"To the Vietnamese restaurant you have a coupon for, no doubt," Sherlock shrugged. "Part of what I do depends on me being able to accurately read a person's emotions and intentions with one glance."
"So you're a police officer of some kind," Victor guessed offhandedly.
"No, not me," Sherlock snorted. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world, actually. Ah, here we are."
"How do you know what restaurant I had a coupon to?"
"Simple. I have the same coupon. Came in the programme for the play we just left," Sherlock grinned, and they both laughed.
John hadn't heard from Sherlock in five hours, which was not usual. Since they'd become colelagues, Sherlock texted him with the sad insistency of a person who had nobody else on their contacts list. And it had been five hours since the last text (At Bart's; new body), which worried John inordinately and maybe made him a little jealous but not really.
Finally, he decided to drop by at Bart's, just to make sure Sherlock hadn't consumed anything toxic or corrosive or something like that. It's not that he didn't trust a building-full of medical professionals with Sherlock's safety, it's just that these particular medical professionals were more accustomed to death than others, which made John uneasy.
He found Sherlock in a large room kept for cooling bodies referred affectionately as The 'Fridge, and what's more he found him with Victor Frankenstein, who was crouching with the doctor over a head on a large metal slab.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" John asked, and was speared by an irritated look that he had seen, but never been a victim of before. "Er..."
"We're trying the saliva coagulation experiment again," Sherlock said. "In a more controlled environment than the refrigerator at Baker Street. Why do you look so upset, John? I thought you would be pleased."
"Hi John," said Victor said with a kind smile. "How was work?"
"Good," John said dismissively, and turned back to Sherlock. "Why do you need to try that experiment again? I thought that the data you collected from the last one was satisfactory."
"Satisfactory, yes. Ideal, no," Sherlock said sharply. "Shut the door. And try not to emit too much body heat. You're raising the temperature exponentially."
"I could just leave," John pointed out, trying not to let on how hurt he was.
"Oh, you hardly need do that," Victor protested with a pained smile. "Please, just sit down. He's having one of his queer genius moments."
John twitched slightly at this phrasing, but did as he was told. Victor was somehow very good at compelling John to act like a total Nigel Bruce-like welcome mat.
"Erm... there's a symphony tonight, at the Phil," he informed Sherlock. "Joshua Bell. I thought you might like to-"
"Can't."
There was a long silence.
"Are you going to offer any explanation beyond that, Sherlock?" John asked testily. "Or have you found some way to fill up your evenings that doesn't include me."
"Spot on Doctor," Sherlock said with a sardonic smile. "Once again, the look of heartbreak is hardly going to work on me. I know you've been needing an evening or two to spend with Sarah."
"Well yes, but..."
"And that visually stunning and intellectually barren movie by the Canadian you're so fond of is out in theatres. 3-D. Nothing sets the mood better than splitting migraines and feline aliens from outer space," Sherlock said pointedly, and then began to prod at the head's lower lip. "Give it a go, John. Me, Victor and Benny will keep for another day. Well, not Benny, I suppose."
Victor laughed. John grimaced and left. He considered it a mark of his self-respect that he didn't laugh at Sherlock's jokes.