Fairy Rings
Mythology/Fairytale Alternate Universe
Genres: Fantasy, Supernatural, Mystery, later Romance, some elements of Horror and Adventure
Rated T for: Gore, subject matter (murder, death, etc), sexual content, and eating habits of multiple characters
It's not a nice fairy story
All glory and power to the Mofftiss
Sergeant Sally Donovan uncovered the tarp from the body, torch in hand. It was raining and the body had been dumped carelessly outside in the middle of a garden. No one had seen it, of course. None of the passerby would have noticed, anyway. It was invisible to the world, as it should have been.
"It's a child, a girl," she said softly, carefully moving the long blonde hair off the face. Young, not yet twelve. They were disgusting, the monsters who did this to children. Unforgivable. "She's an elf, northern born."
"Are you sure?" Detective Inspector Lestrade hovered at her elbow.
"Of course I'm sure. It's my job to be sure. She's got blonde hair, only characteristic of the northern elves, which means she's likely to have family looking for her."
"Do you see any wounds?"
She shook her head. "None from this angle."
"Bag her," the inspector said, turning to his team. "We can't have the body sitting out in the rain forever. We've been here long enough as is; it'll start to look suspicious. Bunch of police officers all crowded around a tree." He turned back to his sergeant, sighing. "Third one now with no sign of injury this week. I think we need to—"
"Don't say it."
"We're falling behind."
"We don't need him."
Lestrade gave her a look. "We need his help. I'm about to go into a press conference with no clue what's happening, which is going to make the whole unit look silly."
"But he's—"
"But he's what?"
"I—" she growled, frustrated. "I can't see him."
"Neither can I!"
"But it's not your job to. We've had this discussion. He wraps himself in so many layers I can't see what he looks like, and it's my job, my specialty to tell people apart and I can't even catch the slightest glimpse of him! Have you ever stopped to think that he's not one of us?"
"I have, and I've discarded that idea. He's one of us, and we need his help."
Donovan sighed. "I won't play nice."
"That's okay, you never play nice."
John Watson looked out the window of his tiny flat. It was raining again. It was always raining. The only thing consistent since he'd come back from the war was the rain—okay, that was a lie, two things, but he didn't like to think of the second. The rain poured down, running off the gutters up above, streaming down the walls, trickling across the glass. He watched as the drops snaked slowly before catching another drop, then another, another, and bolting down and to the ground. He flicked his eyes from the droplets to the people outside. Wandering around in the downpour, scurrying from awning to awning, umbrellas crowding the sidewalk, bustling in the inclement weather.
He sighed and turned back to his small space, eyeing the umbrella at his door. He had to leave now, or he'd be late for therapy. Hah! Therapy. If the guys back East knew he had to see a therapist—they would flip. The jokes would never end. It wasn't his fault. It was mandatory for everyone shipped home in his condition.
"How have you been feeling, John?"
She had a little notepad out and everything, waiting to record any progress he'd made, maybe to try to decipher the inner workings of his mind, which he could tell you were three emotions: anger, frustration, and fear.
"Better, worse, the same. It's only been a week since we've spoken."
"And you see me every week, so I expect some progress as the months pass." She crossed her legs. "Does your leg still bother you?"
He nodded. "Every morning, and especially when it rains."
"Must be an awful day, then."
"Not awful."
She raised an eyebrow. "Progress?"
"Acclamation, I think."
There was a nod and scribble in the pad. "Can you recall anything more than last week?"
John shook his head and closed his eyes. No, he couldn't remember anything else. It was dark, there was a noise, he went to check it out, next thing he knew he was being carried, blood dribbling everywhere.
The appointment didn't last long after that. He ended his outing the same way he ended it every Wednesday; alone in a pub. A beer, as per usual, and chips for once. Might as well, it was a rainy day and there were few pick-me-ups he had left.
"John Watson?"
He looked up at the sound of his name and found himself facing an old friend from medical school. "Mike. It's good to see you."
"Heard you'd been off to war, what happened?"
He took a drink from his pint. "Got injured."
"Bloody mess, that. Doing okay?"
"Yeah, better than when I first arrived."
"That's the spirit. So what are you doing in London with an army pension?"
"Struggling to get by."
"Have you spoken to Harry about it yet?"
"Nah. That would cause too much panic."
"Then I guess she'd be of no help. Have you considered going halves?"
John could laugh. "Who would consider sharing a flat with me?"
"Funny thing, you're the second person to say that to me today."
"Who was the first?"
"Molly! I need those test results!"
"Arsenic was negative!" called the woman from the other side of the lab.
"Belladonna?"
"Negative!"
"Cyanide?"
"Negative!"
"…Monkshood?"
"I got a hit!"
"Brilliant!" He stood, hurrying to her. She held a vial of liquid, the now-identified crushed remains of a monkshood plant. "I figured as much."
Her shoulders slumped. "If you figured, why did you have me run so many tests?"
"Safe to be sure, Molly."
She sighed. "Sherlock."
"What? It's always best to be safe. Especially whom you do that around."
"Do what around?"
"You're staring at my neck again."
She swore and turned around, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. It's not me—I mean, I'm not good at controlling it yet."
He rolled his eyes. "I'm aware."
She spun around, cheeks bright red. "I've already apologized for that profusely; I'm not sure what else to say!"
"You don't have to say anything, it was just a reminder."
"Unbelievable," she hissed. "I'm going back downstairs to do my job. Do you need anything before I go?"
"Yes. Molly, would you like to get coffee?"
"Piss off, Sherlock."
She left, slamming the door behind her. He sucked in a breath. That could have gone better. At least he got his results beforehand.
The door opened again and Molly stuck her head in. "I'm sorry about the temper. I've yet to acclimate to the hormone shift—"
"It's been well over three months."
"Well, you know what? We can't all be born special, can we?" She groaned. "There I go again. Anyway, what was that about coffee?"
"Oh, nothing," he said, waving it away. "Just if you were going to fetch me a cup. Black—"
"Two sugars, unless by chance there's a sweet Brazilian roast, in which case you take it with light cream. I know. We've been working together for over a year. I've been your coffee girl for months."
"I—all right. Thank you, Molly."
"No problem," she said with a loud sigh, exiting the lab.
That really could have gone better.
That wasn't what he wanted at all. Molly had been so much easier to deal with before the accident. So much. He missed timid, shy, quiet Molly…to an extent. New Molly was…well. More exciting, for the lack of a better word.
The door creaked open for a second time a quarter of an hour later.
"Molly, it's really—" Sherlock looked up at the faces of Mike Stamford and an unfamiliar man.
Not Molly.
Mike had gone out to lunch and brought back an old acquaintance. Mid to late thirties—
"Bit different from my day," the man said, looking about the room.
—medical school acquaintance. Ah, this would be fun.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? I've no signal on mine."
He padded down his pockets. "Sorry, I've left it in my coat."
"Here, take mine."
The other man handed him a simple touch-screen phone.
"Old friend of mine, John Watson."
Sherlock thanked him and raised an eyebrow, quickly inspecting the device before shooting a text to a client. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. How did you—"
The door swung open and Molly came striding in with a blue ceramic mug. "You're in luck, they had Brazilian," she said, handing him the coffee. "That's the last run I'm making for you today."
"Thank you, Molly." He wasn't going to mention the new lack of lipstick—she'd snap. Not the best display before a potential flatmate. She rolled her eyes and left as quietly as she'd arrived.
"Gotten a bit touchy, has she?" Mike asked.
"You have no idea," he admitted, taking a long draught of his coffee.
The rest was explained quickly, as he had an urgent appointment. He played the violin, kept odd hours on cases, could go for days without speaking. He had easily seen the nature of John's limp. He gave the address of the flat in question and finally introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes before skating out the door and down the hall.
"Been away from home long, little brother. Mummy's worried sick about you."
Sherlock stopped mid-stride at the voice. He swung around, eyes already narrowed. "I'm running late, Mycroft."
"For nothing of great importance." His brother caught up to him easily. If he hadn't known better, Sherlock would have called his stride predatory. "You should really make an appearance soon. The Court isn't too happy one of its high-borns keeps dodging sessions."
"They're at the worst times. You know how hectic my schedule gets."
"And you know how unforgiving mine is, but I always show my face. Because I—"
"Make an effort. Whereas I do not because it's a total waste of my time."
"If Mummy knew you said that—"
"You tell her and so help me I'll—"
"You'll what?"
Sherlock growled and increased his pace. "I don't have time!"
"I'll send your regards," Mycroft said, stepping into the shadows.
"You are late."
Sherlock stared at the ground, kneeling before the speaker. "I apologize."
"You may stand."
Large black eyes surveyed him on pale gold-speckled faces. Golden hair flowed down the throne, pooling around the stone base like a liquid flax pond. The one in the middle did not bear a name, addressed only as The High One, with an unknown sex and ambiguous features.
Sherlock rose, examining his surroundings. The world had changed as soon as he stepped onto the tumulus, the light growing warmer and the rain ceasing. Trees sprouted on the previously misty moorland. Sunlight filtered through the branches, thick and glowing like a wedding band. The High One sat in a stone throne in the decaying ruins of a castle. The ceiling was felled and vines crept and slithered on what remained of the stony walls. It was hard to believe he was on top of a necropolis.
"What have you brought for us today, Sherlock son of Titus?"
"I have recovered a token, High One."
The High One's coal eyes grew wider as he retrieved a cloth-wrapped object from inside his jacket. He unraveled it partially, careful not to touch the stone. It was just a fraction, just the eyes of the carved beast. He handed it to the one on the side who bore a large purple scepter.
"You have brought me the eyes of Black Shuck, Sherlock son of Titus. Where is the rest of the beast?"
"Scattered, High One. The beast is in pieces."
"I want all the pieces so I may bury them deep below the earth. The beast must be banished from walking the world of the living and the in-between."
"I understand, High One."
"Report to me when you have found the next piece. I dismiss you."
The scepter pounded the stone-slab floor and the forest was sucked away.
He stood, once again alone on the foggy moor.
A/N: Hello yes welcome thank you for reading.
So the name for the story sounds so much fluffier than the story actually is.
It's dark.
The fairies are not nice.
Words of the day are necropolis, which is a city of the dead, and tumulus, which is a burial mound.
It'd be really super sweet if I could get some feedback on any aspect of this, including character portrayals (okay yes I get it Molly's acting weird that's on purpose and for a good reason), plot, writing structure, voice, tone, whatever. Feel free to pick apart grammar, spelling, plot holes, inconsistencies, et cetera as the story moves forward.
