Title: A delicate test
Author: clarrie
Disclaimer: Most of what you see is owned by, respectively, Joss Whedon, Fox, The WB, The estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Jean Marsh and Eileen Atkins, Bram Stoker and Laurie R King.
This is a Sherlock Holmes, Buffy, Dracula, Upstairs Downstairs, Beekeeper crossover. There was a bet.
An illustrated version of this fic can be found at www.geocities.com/bakesale_bitca/deltest.html


'Dru! Drusilla pet, you are a fucking gem.'
The skinny, greasily aggressive, young man took a deep draught from his beer bottle and ran a pale hand over his crop of sandy hair. 'You're a marvel. A bleedin' marvel!' He sprawled, lolling back in his chair like a grubby dandy, his face lit with a fierce misshapen pride. 'You know, I've watched you work every day for years but still...' He leapt to his feet, his hands clasped in joy like a child on Christmas morning. 'But still...'
The girl stared fixedly into the flame of a candle smiling distantly and drawing her long pale fingers through the heat. 'The length of her hair, it was nothing so special, 'twas just long enough to wrap round my throat, and I disappear in the cold, cold satin, oh the dark lining of her long winter coat.' Her voice trembled softly with as she sang. Oblivious to the other occupant of the room she sang her high piping song to the candle flame. 'If you take my hand, well I'll show you the dances...'
'Dru? Do you remember the talk we had, about not playing with Mr Fire, or Mrs Sunlight?'
A demure smile crossed the young woman's inward looking face. 'He played so prettily, when we danced.' She picked up a handful of salt and began to drop the grains into her flame, watching hypnotised as the bright spark of coloured fire flashed in front of her.
'I know he did love.' Spike put his arms around her waist and nuzzled gently at her neck. 'And you were the belle of the ball.'
'He was like a pretty little butterfly.' Drusilla stared blindly at her fingertips. 'All burned up in the flame. Lily papillion.'
'Sherlock bloody Holmes!' Spike gave her waist another squeeze. 'My little Dru took down Snoop Sherlock. Dru you are a fucking wonder...'
'Wonder, I wonder, I wonder...'
'Dru?'
'Do you think he'll come visit his mummy?'
'Oh pet. Tell me you didn't...'


'OPEN THE DOOR!' Watson felt the flat of his hands scrape the hard wood of the door as he pounded blindly at his target. 'OPEN. DAMN YOU WOMAN.'
'Well! I don't know that I've ever been spoken to quite so... What is it? What's wrong?' Mrs Hudson's expression changed in a split second. 'Doctor? There's been an accident hasn't there? I'll send a message to...'
'Holmes is dead.' Watson took a bottle from the sideboard and sunk into a hunched position in his chair. 'I...We were attacked... I'll send a message to his brother about any arrangements, if you would care to alert Mr Lestrade that Dr Watson wishes to speak to him with the uttermost urgency. After that, your time is your own.'
As the capable housekeeper exited the room Watson stared at the uncorked bottle in front of him. The caustic fumes of some abandoned experiment hung in the air and marked the rooms with the character of their deceased occupant. He cast the bottle, untouched, into the fire and ran the events of the night through his brain...


'I must say I think this is all in rather poor taste.' I stared at the smiling woman across the table from me as she stroked the crystal in front of her. 'And I do think you might have chosen a less obvious target.'
She stared at me with undisguised boredom. 'You are finished?' I nodded, mildly fascinated by her disregard for my protests. 'Good.'


He was not unused to death, a doctor, in particular an army doctor is not afforded an opportunity to become sensitive about such things. And the loss of his own dearest Mary had been an all too recent personal experience of the phenomena. But this? This was not just death. This was something foul and inhuman. The memory of that creature as she had slashed at his friend bringing him down... This...
A knock at the door broke into his reverie. 'Call back tomorrow.'
'Watson. For pities sake let me in.'
In a moment he was at the door, bundling his friend into the room. 'Holmes? Holmes, I'm sorry, so very, very sorry.' Holmes leant his full weight upon Watson's shoulder and allowed him to pull him to the settee.
'My dear Watson,' He breathed. 'Do shut up. We need...' He closed his eyes and bit down upon his lower lip. 'We need to speak to... We need to speak to Dr Giles, at the...' And he collapsed, unconscious, upon the couch.

'Your pulse is somewhat erratic, although this is rather to be expected.' The rather serious looking woman let Holmes's wrist fall to his side and stepped back. 'You've lost rather a lot of blood, again, not unexpected.'
'Holmes? Who...That is, I... I mean...'
'This is Dr Miriam Giles, Watson. An associate of my brother's.' Holmes winced as cold fingers probed at the gash on the side of his neck. 'I would not wish you to take her presence here as any reflection on your own highly competent medical skills. It is simply that she has rather more experience in a few somewhat specialised fields.'
'You have been outstandingly lucky.' The doctor stood back from her patient and wiped her hands. 'Exceptionally lucky. It would appear that you were merely...' She paused momentarily. 'Attacked until you passed into unconsciousness and left for dead.'
'I'm sorry, I'm so, so very sorry. I thought...'
'Oh please don't let's start this again Watson. Had you not run we would have both been lying in that alleyway now, and who would have been left to fetch the good doctor then?'
'I imagine the same rather grubby youth who came for me today.' A wry smile passed rapidly across the visitor's otherwise stern face. She raised an eyebrow. 'I believe he introduced himself as 'Billy, mate, uh, sir, uh, blimey, ma'am.'
'I...I didn't like to leave.' Watson blushed at Holmes raised eyebrow, 'you seemed so pale.'
'Always the mother hen Watson, always the mother hen.' Holmes chuckled softly to himself. 'Which reminds me, have you offered our guest a cup of tea yet? No? Why then you must do so at once.'
Tea was brewed and poured as Dr Giles affixed a light gauze to the wounds on Holmes face and neck. 'Now, you must get plenty of rest.' She sipped carefully at her tea and stared over her glasses at her irascible patient. 'If you notice anything unusual, anything, then I want you to contact me. Come straight to the hospital, don't come through your brother.' She pulled her bag to her chest and stood to leave. 'Immediately, do you hear me?'
'My dear lady...' Holmes began to drawl as he lit one of his slim cigarettes. 'I rather think I...'
'Come Dr Giles, I'll summon a cab to take you back to...' Watson trailed off, his hand already at their guests elbow. 'To take you back to...'
'St Lucy. It's the free hospital, near the river. I won't take a cab however though if you don't mind.' Dr Giles rummaged in her handbag for a moment before recovering her gloves and sliding her hands into them. 'I hope the time when I fear a good walk through the streets of this city will be a long time coming.'
She paused at the door and spoke softly to her fellow medical practitioner. 'I'm relying on you to fetch me at the least little thing. Anything unusual, no matter how silly you think it might be. The, the woman by whom your friend was...attacked,' That pause again, thought Watson. 'She has been known to... Well, it would be wise to watch him for a day or two.' She stepped gently through the door. 'Good night Dr Watson. Mr Holmes, get some sleep.'


It was barely an hour later when Holmes emerged from his rooms smoking merrily and clad in the multitude of mismatched layers of wool and corduroy which signified a change 'into character'.
'Holmes! You're not going out, at this hour and after... Holmes!'
'Nonsense Watson, these old bones can handle another outing yet.' He picked a small hand rolled cigarette from the tin in one of his outfits many voluminous pockets and lit it from the glowing bowl of his pipe. 'I have a few rather important tasks to complete and...' He smiled sardonically through the haze of foul smelling smoke. 'I rather hope the time when I fear a good walk through the streets of this city will be a long time coming.'
'Holmes I must insist...'
'My dear Watson, I do wish you would stop fussing so. ' Holmes arranged his frayed and unsanitary fingerless gloves into a more satisfactory position. 'I assure you that Sherlock Holmes would not be caught...Would not be seen on the streets at such an unsavoury hour.'
He drove his crown deep into his ill-fitting, worn and grubby bowler and stood before the mirror. 'It may be that a Mr Basil Josephs, cab driver by his trade, may be seen to pass a few moments in idle conversation with some of the city's less respectable business persons. But what of it?' He leered rheumily into the mirror. 'T'aint a crime ta 'ave friends yit is it?'


'Ere! Wot you playin' at?'
'Violet my dear you really must learn to control those nerves.' The dark form sidled out of the shadows and held out a tin. 'I should imagine they heard you in Battersea. Cigarette?'
'Oh, it's you.' The shabbily, and somewhat insufficiently, dressed young woman took a cigarette with comical dignity and held it out for a light. 'Wot you after then?'
'Violet, you wound me. Is it so improbable that I may be desirous of your company on a balmy moonlit night such as this?'
'Go up dozey!' A bubbling cackle echoed round the dark alleyway as the smooth words hit their target. 'You ain't just after a bit of a chat are ya'.'
'Violet, you have a suspicious mind.'
'Stop acting the div! You're a terror you are Baz, got a drink on ya'?'
There was the glint of metal as a small silver hip flask changed hands in the darkness and the pair shared a drink.
'Violet my dear, come away from the street. Whatever will people think of a lady of your stature drinking in public with strange men? I fear for your reputation my sweet really I do...'
The cackle rang out against the cold walls of the alleyway once again as the flask was passed back. 'You got a bleedin' lovely voice Baz. You should go on the music hall or summin.'
'Perhaps you could secure me an audition my dear, I'm sure you have a rather closer relationship with the stage door than I.'
'Ooh, you never stop taking the piss do you?' She drew a pale, stubby finger down the line of his lapel. 'I swear you're jus' trying ta get me drunk.'
'And rob you of a night's work?' He slipped an arm around her waist and slid his other hand beneath her shawl. 'Would I do such a thing?'
'We ain't got more than a couple of hours till it gets light.'
'Hmmm. You overestimate me Violet my pretty really you do.'
'Only the peelers come round an hour an' half before dawn is why I say.' Violet began to ease open the fastenings on her dress. 'Ere, you should've come to me earlier.'
'I am rather afraid that I had previously overlooked the possibilities of your wares.' Holmes brushed his lips against the base of her throat. 'A situation which I hope to rectify with the greatest immediacy.'
Violet's short sharp gasp as Holmes drew back his teeth and punctured her jugular vein went unnoticed in the busy London night. And as the brandy and laudanum tainted mahogany life force flowed from her lifeless body over his lips, the rare and uninterested passer by saw nothing more or less than another nocturnal transaction between the twin dancers of the oldest trade in the world....