Wrote this for Tumblr, but I figured why not? FF needs some more crappy AUs, and I'm just the person to produce them. 8D So, for your viewing pleasure, some Hiruma *coughHOLMEScough* wandering the streets of London.

Edit: now with fanart by a lovely, talented Tumblerite: toastyhat. tumblr (insert a 'dot-com' and a / here) post/28269932142/a-little-fanart-for-this-masterpiece-headcanon (You know the drill: take out the spaces because FF is a bitch. XP)

There's going to be another bloody damsel in distress on the scene.

He knows because when the kid with the sqeaky, panicky voice called in the crime there was another voice in the background, and it was a woman, and it was screaming—a lot, actually.

York C. Hiram is the smartest bloody detective in this city and he does not have time for shrieking women.

He does have time, on his leisurely stroll down to the crime scene, to appreciate the appropriateness of the weather. London tonight is a mass of fog that coils around the streetlamps and makes the occasional firelit window glow red.

Nothing like a red glow to add atmosphere.

Hiram yawns and resettles his longcoat around his shoulders, turning up the collar against the chill of the fog. He's always liked being out at night. Granted he's perfectly fine with the stares and murmurs that surround him during the day, but it's easier to get through the streets without the whole goddamn evangelical force of the bloody church of England swarming him—and the bloody kids running up and staring at him and asking him if he's from the circus.

Hiram hates bloody kids.

Well that's beside the point now, because there oughtn't to be any kids there tonight. Tonight, the order of business is a murder. Serial murder, actually—and the coppers do a pretty bang-up job of keeping the kids out when they think the crime is nasty enough to scar their innocent little hearts.

…which was idiotic, Hiram considers to himself, watching his reflection ripple past in the dark shop windows. He'd seen plenty of crime before he'd hit thirteen, and he's turned out just fine.

Maybe not this kind of crime, though…

He hears the coppers before he sees them—a bonus of those big, pointed ears, he's found. Besides being bloody useful when it comes to intimidating the coppers off his crime scene, they pick up a lot of sounds other people don't hear. There's chatter he can't make out, and neighing horses—brilliant, he just loves big dumb animals that shit everywhere, why couldn't they just bring the bloody automobiles?

When he's a block closer, he hears the woman again.

"Don't you patronize me, sir!" She's saying, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes; she's got that trained accent, high-class. "I'm trying to tell you what I saw, if you would just listen to me!"

"Ma'am," says another voice, and it's a familiar one, deep and gritty and tired with an accent that's common as dirt compared to the bloody damsel's. Hiram grins at the sound, wide and sharp-toothed and satisfied. It's the bloody geezer. Always a pleasure, working with London's best and brightest carpenter-cop. "You gave a statement already, we're waiting for a detective who'll check over the scene."

"I'm telling you, you need more than some detective!" The woman yells, and he can picture the geezer's face, one finger dug into his ear to block the noise. "I saw what did it, it was a monster! And haven't you seen what happened here?"

"Actually I have," says the bloody geezer dryly, but the bloody damsel in distress isn't listening to him; she keeps right on yelling.

"You can't tell me it he was murdered just because he's American, no one would kill for something like that! He was assigned to catch this man and he was getting close, and now—oh my goodness!"

Hiram gives the damsel a little wave as the bloody geezer turns to him and says, "…Late again, Hiram. You're never on time for anything, are you?"

"That—" the damsel is still staring at him. Well, he must have made quite a sight, melting in out of the shadows like he did. "That's…your detective…?"

He sweeps off his hat and takes a bow and she gasps as he straightens up, the light falling on his pointed teeth as he grins—his pointed ears as he combs his fingers through the spikes of his hair and turns to the old man, ignoring her. "Murdered," he says immediately, and gets a nod in response. "And he was a bloody sharpshooter, too, always had a gun and a bodyguard with him. Crushed bones, smashed door, broken windows—and a bouquet of those damn red and white roses. The bloody game is afoot now."

"And…an eyewitness," says the bloody geezer, and points him straight back to the damsel, who's still looking at him like he's popped in for a visit on his way back to hell.

"Fine," he tells the geezer, and turns to the woman. "Bloody Damsel-In-Distress!"

"Don't call me that!" she snaps back at him, and he raises his eyebrows at the old man. A bit fiery for her level of schooling. And for a second, when she was mad at him, he thought he heard a hint of an accent. Irish? Fascinating. "My name is Mary! Ma'am, to you."

"Ma'am-Mary—"

"Now you listen to me—!"

"—you're not worth my time and I honestly I don't care what the hell you have to say to me," he tells her, and then turns and starts to walk toward the crime scene.

And then there's a whistling sound, and an umbrella takes his hat off.

If you can guess who the murderer and the victim are, you get kudos. I make it fairly obvious. This was really fun to write actually, so there might have to be more of it at some point. We shall see. Moriarty is out there somewhere... :D Maybe someday I'll write about him and find out who he is.

(...does this mean Kurita is Watson?)