Disclaimer: This AU is loosely based off of M. Night Shyamalan's 'The Village'. Although you don't need to know the storyline of the movie to follow this fic, please understand that I do not own certain ideas and themes that are written in this fanfiction. To know which ones, I recommend watching the movie itself. Or not, up to you. I can't list the ideas and themes that I've used because that would be spoilers, but here's the IMBD link: /title/tt0368447/ and there you can find the synopsis of The Village and recognise who owns the material.
The characters, however, are owned by the BBC's adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, 'Sherlock'.
Please understand this is an AU (alternative universe) and therefore some characters may seem OOC.
I: Let the bad color not be seen. It attracts them.
II: Never enter the woods. That is where they wait.
III: Heed the warning bell, for they are coming.
- The Village
1882. Or at least, that's where this all started.
I've never been good at describing events, nor writing stories. My strong point was always swimming, but I guess we all know what happened there. And before I introduce myself formally I'd like to tell you why I'm here, because the story I'm about to tell you is a story that needs to be told. Would it be too cheesy to explain that this story is one that defies the laws of love? Or changed history? Maybe. I'll let you make your own assumptions there. The two people I'd like to talk to you about today are John and Sherlock. One, a village doctor from 1882. He wears a waistcoat, pocket watch, has a sister called Harrieta and owns a little cottage on the corner of the village cabbage plot.
The other was Sherlock. A few years younger than John, Sherlock was a nothing. A modern-day man living around the streets of twenty-first century New York - squatting in a friend's spare apartment because he couldn't afford a rent. He had a brother, but he was rarely of any importance.
The story of how these two met, and the events that followed, is the story I feel I should share with you today.
Now, let me introduce myself. My name is Carl, Carl Powers. I was a champion junior swimmer, trained five days a week. I died, and death was boring, so I watched. I watched from above as these two completely different lonely souls clumsily fell upon each other. Two different lives from two supposedly different eras - merged. Another case to pass the time for Sherlock, and a rush to save a life for John. This is where it all began...
"Sherlock, will you please stop leaving all these mugs around my apartment!" A shrill voice sounded, followed by the clinking of mugs. "You just waltz in here with your endless cups of tea and your scarfs and your silly experiments..." She trailed off, pausing at the door to give Sherlock a disapproving look. Mrs Hudson sighed, "You need a job, Sherlock. I can't look after you forever."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, kicking his feet up on the sofa and sliding his laptop closer on his lap. He stared intently at the screen, waving a hand in her direction. "Yes, of course... Make me some tea."
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock grimaced. "...Please."
She sighed. "Just this once, Sherlock." She warned, trotting back into the kitchen. "I'm not your house keeper!" She sang, hoping to remind Sherlock some-what. Sherlock grunted, focusing on the words of his screen. A case. Brilliant. It wasn't extraordinarily interesting, but considering the recent cases of kind-of-missing children and the mystery of the missing cat, Velcro, it was a definite step up. A murder. A real, gripping murder that Sherlock could get his hands on; That is, if the local police force didn't beat him to it. "Mrs Hudson, cancel that tea. I have a case!" He yelled, grinning as he jumped up from the sofa, his dressing-gown sloping over his long limbs. He quickly shut his laptop, discarding it on the sofa and strolling into the next room. He appeared a moment later, fiddling with his top button and tucking in the stray ends of his purple shirt.
"I hope someone isn't hurt, Sherlock. You really shouldn't get so excited over someone else's misery..." Mrs Hudson tutted, trotting back into the living space. She placed her mug of tea down, walking over to Sherlock with a tut. "What am I going to do with you?" She sighed, doing up Sherlock's top button and straitening his shirt. Sherlock pouted, "It's just a case."
"It's not your case, Sherlock. Leave it to the police..." She complained, tapping his cheek before returning to her mug of tea.
"I can't leave it to the police, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock protested, a look of disgust on his face. "They're idiots. Especially that Anderson..." He grumbled. "Anyway, it's my case. I found it first!" Sherlock frowned childishly, pulling on his coat.
"Yes, yes. Do as you must, just clean up those experiments when you get back-"
"Bye!" Sherlock yelled, quickly strolling out the door whilst throwing on his scarf.
"Doctor Watson?" A shy voice called, the shadow of a small girl leaning against the door frame appeared, blocking off the sunlight that streamed in through the open door.
John quickly turned, hugging his papers to his chest. "Just a moment!" He yelled, taking another swig of tea from his saucer and placing it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, swallowed and sighed. Throwing on his jacket with his one free arm, he walked through to the kitchen. "Hello." He greeted with a smile, dumping the papers on his make-shift desk. "Can I help?" The small girl returned the smile, "It's my father, I was wondering if you could take a look at him? He has a cold." John nodded, and with that the two of them stepped out into the morning sun and made their way over to the Milton's family farm.
That's how many of John's days played out. Being a doctor in the eighteenth century was far from the life-style of a twenty-first century doctor. There were no qualifications needed for such a small village, no surgeries to work in and no one to help guide him of his diagnosis. He was just the doctor. The life he had held little interest to him, and unlike most people who would do anything to venture out into the world, all John wanted in life was to live it simply. No fuss, no danger, just a simple routine and a cup of tea.
But the village was far from any ordinary village.
It was called Shipton Downs, and was placed literally in the middle of no-where. A tiny village surrounded by a large forest that no body dared venture into. At most the population was around one-hundred people, only a quarter of which were children, and the others were made up of Villagers and Elders. The Elders were essentially the village council who spent the rest of their common lives directing the younger generation on what to do, so that when they live on and pass, the Villagers may become the Elders and the circle will become endless. Everything the village owned and used was produced inside the village, whether that be crops from your fields or clothes from Margret – the village tailor. The Elders decided it all.
Their main job as the Elders of the Shipton Downs?
Protecting the village from 'Those We Do Not Speak Of'.
The merciless monsters that live in amongst the trees, surrounding the village. Killers. Giant red-cloaked figures with hunch-backs and scorched, bloody skin. A mix between animal and monster. They'd only be sighted a number of times by the villagers, but the treaty meant that they may not trespass into the village, if the villagers did not venture into their woods. It'd been a while since that treaty was last broken. And not my the humans.
"John, there's been an accident." Harrieta panted, suddenly running into the open doorway of John's cottage. She doubled over, clutching her stomach in an attempt to catch her breath.
"What do you mean?" John mumbled, still scanning over his documents.
"Will you please just put those stupid notes down and listen!" She screeched, nostrils flaring. John immediately looked up with concern.
"Harry?" He asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "You're shaking." He stated.
"John, there's been a terrible accident…" She repeated, swallowing hard. "It's one of the children, Lucy her name is. She was working on the mill and got caught in the machinery. Oh God, John, she's a mess!" She cried, tears rolling down her cheeks. "And so young too!" She cried.
John stood up, quickly walking around the table to pull on his coat. "Where is she?"
"You can't help her John, it's not fixable-"
"Then why are you here?" John growled, anxious to help.
"I didn't know what else to do, none of us do!" She panicked, "Father told me to go see you, he said you were the only one who could help her. He said to go get you… God, John… She's all-"
"Where's father?"
"He's with the sheriff."
"Lestrade?"
"Who else!"
John shut his eyes, placing a hand to the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. "Right… I'll find him. You stay here, make yourself some tea. I can't have you running around like that, causing people more stress." He declared, turning to pull on a jumper. He quickly left the cottage without another word, closing the door behind him.
"Father?" John knocked twice, opening the door to the Sheriff's cottage cautiously. The door squeaked, and John had to swallow hard to stay composed. "Lestrade?"
"In here!" Came the returned voice. John walked through to the front room.
"Sheriff?"
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem." He grumbled, John finally appearing at the door of the living room. Sheriff Lestrade was slumped in an armchair, his legs laid out in front of him, leaning on a wooden box. He took another large bite of his turkey sandwich. "Not my problem!" He repeated, louder this time, not even looking John's way.
John sighed, glaring. "There's a little girls' life in danger here, would you just please-!" He cut off, taking a deep breath. "Where's my father? Harrieta said he'd be here." He growled.
"He just left for Dara's farm…" The sheriff mumbled in return, eying John nervously. "What's happened?"
"Not your problem!" John called, quickly running back out the door.
Dara's farm was basically the center of the village. On lonely days when the sky was grey and everyone was out doing their own thing, I'd sit and watch Dara's farm from the sky. Many of the villagers worked there, and many Elders spent their days relaxing there. It was more of a self-business for everyone then a farm, as everyone worked on their own crops and meat that they'd later take home to their patient families for a Sunday-night roast.
John's father was one of those villagers.
"Father!" John called, walking around the side of the farm-house. He appeared in the orchard, and had to wind his way through the tree's to follow his father's voice directly. "Father, we need your assistance!"
"John?" Suddenly appearing in front of John, his father popped his head around one of the orange tree's, a basket full of fruit hanging on his arm. He had a piece of straw poking out of his mouth, chewing on it absent-mindedly. "Son?"
John stared wide-eyed. "Father, something awful has happened. This is an emergency – and you're out here picking oranges?" He raged, growing angry.
"There's nothing we can do about Lucy-"
"There's everything we can do!" He yelled, "This is a bloody young girl's life we're talking about!"
His father sighed, placing down the basket and putting a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "We need medication we don't have, John…"
"Then lets get it!" John protested, narrowing his eyes.
"That would mean getting it from somewhere else."
The orchard fell into an unearthly silence. Surrounding villagers turned and stared, their hands stuck in mid-air. "What are you talking about?" John breathed.
His father offered a sheepish smile, "To get the medication to save Lucy's life, we need to find it from somewhere else…" He sighed, "Follow me."
John hesitated, but followed as his father discarded his basket of oranges on the ground and made his way through the orchard and back towards the farm-house. He walked in, the silence that had settled in the house quickly disturbed, and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. He sat down, "Close the door."
John noted the tone, closing the door in silence. He leaned against the stove, crossed his arms and waited for his father to start talking. He did.
"Lucy can't be saved on a mixture of oils and vinegar, John. She needs real medication, not herbal remedies. Her head is severely split open, she has cracked ribs and torn ligaments galore." John cringed. "Her face is all cut up beyond repair…"
"Then surely there's nothing we can do?" John protested.
"Wrong." His father stated, placing his hands down on the table. "John, what I'm about to tell you, you can't repeat it to anyone."
John breathed a laugh, "You can't be serious?" He smiled, "This whole thing is ridiculous! Are you playing me as a fool?" He asked, shaking his head.
"John." His father warned. John's smile quickly faded.
"Listen to me, you can't ever tell anyone, John. The future of the village relies on that…" His father gave him a pleading look, and John swallowed hard. He nodded once, not quite sure what he was agreeing to. "You must understand John that we did this to help protect our children, all us Elders. We wanted to make sure you all grew up in a safe and protected environment, without being tainted by the world's -" He paused, sighing. There was a moment of silence. "My father was murdered when I was a boy." He announced.
John furrowed his eyebrows. "By them?" He asked quietly, looking out over the forest from the kitchen window. He brought his gaze back to his father, who shook his head.
"By town folk."
"Who?"
"Town folk." He grumbled, "They're the people who lived in the city, like myself. He was walking to work, his things were stolen and he was stabbed several times with a kitchen knife." His father shifted uncomfortably, John simply stared.
"You mean to tell me that you came from a different village called City?" John mumbled, confused. "Well that's ridiculous." He declared, "You'd of had to cross the forest to get to this village. You'd of never survived Those We Do Not Speak Of."
"There was no Shipton Down's back then, John. Do you honestly believe we're the only humans on this earth? That there's nothing else out there?" His father snapped. John shut his mouth,
"Of course now, there are other villages…" John began.
"There are more than other villages, there's other countries and a whole world!"
"What the hell do you want me to do about that?" John snapped, glaring. "What the bloody hell has any of this got to do about that little girl? So there are other villages, brilliant! If you haven't noticed, we can't get to any of them. If we break the treaty then we'd all be killed."
"Wrong."
"Stop telling me that I'm wrong!" John yelled.
"John, calm down. You're not helping the situation. This is all linked by what I'm about to tell you, what you mustn't tell anyone, but to understand you have to listen." John's father waited for an approval before continuing, "I arrived in this village when I was around thirty, when you were tiny and after your mother had died. We came from the city, which wasn't the name of another village. The city was huge, John. It was full of people and buildings and-"
"Buildings?"
"They're like giant houses, made of brick and cement. Skyscrapers."
"Skysc-"
"Just let me finish." He sighed, "After my brother was murdered, I met Linda from the Milton family. Her sister had been raped and left to die in an alleyway." He caught a sight of John's confused expression, "An alleyway is like a gap between two buildings, they're dark." He continued on, "Then we met other Elders, all of whom had had precious family and friends cruelly murdered in cold blood and stolen from them. My point here is, John, that the world we lived in was cruel and merciless. We all agreed we wanted a new life, a pure life, so we left the city and we came here. We found a gap in the woods - a small patch of grass with around two or three fields, and we built a new civilization. Shipton Downs."
John furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.
"John, we couldn't have our children growing up there, it was horrific. So we made this village, and we made it well." He smiled, "And it was perfect, and our children were safe, and little Harrieta loved it so much…"
"So we all came from this 'City'?" John asked.
"It still exists just outside the forest."
"But what about Those We Do Not Speak Of?" John exclaimed, taking a step forward. "They kill, we've all seen it. They wouldn't of just let you through!"
"We made them too."
The room fell silent.
"What?" John asked, placing a hand to the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "You made them?"
"They're costumes, Margret made them." His father admitted, biting down on his lip as he eyed his son cautiously.
"You can't just make a killer!" John protested, "They've killed people! Last year, that small boy, they ate him-"
"The boy died of natural causes, we used his death to create the story. He was buried here at Dara's." His father stated, "Those We Do Not Speak Of do not exist, John. The forest is empty, they're just a story and a costume. We needed them to make sure you children wouldn't ever venture out of the village."
"We've lived our whole bloody lives in fear!" John yelled, throwing his hands up.
"Will you keep your voice down!" His father hissed. "It had to be done."
"What year is this?" John mumbled, eyes closed again, hand gripping the bridge of his nose.
"What? John I-"
"What year is this?" He repeated through gritted teeth.
John's father hesitated. "…It's 2012."
John said nothing, his father continued. "I need you to go through he forest, tell the villagers that we've spoken to Those We Do Not Speak Of. Tell them we've bargained with them. I need you to go through the forest and out through the other side, from there I'll give you directions into the city…"
"Why me?"
His father smiled some-what, "You're the doctor, John." He stated, "You're the only one who can save the girl's life."
"What if I'm murdered?"
His father frowned, "As soon as you get to the city, find the nicest looking person you can find. Latch onto them, give them the list of medication you need, tell them that a little girl's life is in danger."
"And if they don't believe me?" John countered.
"Then they're not worth it. Find someone willing to help, John. Stay with them, and return when you can. In the mean time, we'll do whatever we can to keep the girl alive with what we have."
The room fell into silence, and John's head was swimming. "I never thought I'd time travel." He tried to joke, mumbling nervously.
His father cracked a smile.
John sighed, another moment of silence followed. "...I'll do it."
"Wrong."
"I'm not wrong-" Anderson protested, frowning.
"You're wrong, and you're getting in my way." Sherlock snapped, glaring. He rolled his eyes, pulling his coat tighter around him. "Obviously, it was self-inflicted. The man had debt of over three-hundred thousand pounds for God's sakes, and the bank refused a loan. He has three children, one attending a frankly pretty pricey private school, and a wife who demands gifts and jewelry over a kiss on the cheek from her husband." He crouched down, whipping out a magnifying glass and pressing it up to the scratch wound of the victim's throat. "Suicide." He declared, yawning.
"Why would he commit suicide if he loved his wife?" Anderson replied, glaring.
"Oh, you're still here?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "Obviously, he didn't love her." Sherlock announced. "Of course he loved his children, but it's blatantly obvious that if he told his wife about his ridiculous amount of debt, she'd leave him and take the children with her; And let's face it – what father who's knee deep in dept, with no home to stay in, would be provided with joint-custardy of his beloved children?"
Sherlock jumped up, rolling his eyes again. "Get real, it was suicide. He got his friend to cut his throat for him and stage it as murder."
"But who would-" Anderson interjected.
"This man would." Sherlock concluded, pulling off his rubber gloves. He threw them into Anderson's face. "Tell your chief inspector that the case is closed. Arrest Mike Rodgers on the basis of assisted suicide and suspected man slaughter." Sherlock turned, smiled at the detectives, and began to walk across the crime scene with his hands tucked into his pockets and his coat collar hugging his long neck. "Until next time, gentlemen!" He called, ducking under the yellow tape to make his exit.
"Wait!" The female inspector called, who had been watching from afar with an unmistakable sneer. "Who are you?"
Sherlock paused, smirking. He turned slowly, his face only barely recognizable against the dark street that stretched behind. "The name is Sherlock." He announced, "Sherlock Holmes." And with that, the detective disappeared into the darkness.