Magic One Shots (Sherlock BBC Fic)
AN – this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.
Warning – slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.
Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Time Slip 4
In the cavernous space of the old Victorian era sewers, the growl rang hollowly. If he hadn't already been uneasy, this sound alone would have done the trick. In the wake of the growl, none of the three men moved, though one felt a very persistent tug on his sleeve cuff, leading in the direction of the surface.
"Are you sure about this?" Geoff muttered, "Because Pet is not at all pleased."
"You've seen the weather patterns above the square," Sherlock replied, casting a bright eyed glance his way, "John has been tracking this for a week. Whatever convergence is about to happen, it will happen here, below Mitre Square."
"It's alright, Pet. You'll be able to protect him," the Mage at the centre of their grouping spoke up, addressing empty air beside Geoff, "The Runes I've painted on him won't interfere with that."
There was a grumble of vague discontent and fur pushed persistently against Geoff's fingers, which he rubbed together kindly. This Pet was much more present than his first had been – to the point that his missus had actually asked if he'd been spending more time with the dog squad from the hair on his clothes. He'd given the samples he'd collected to Sherlock – with John's prior permission – as a birthday present. For a horrible moment he'd thought the ecstatic genius was going to actually hug him or something.
It was dark down here and the underground river that had been redirected to flush out this sewer was trickling along with a surly sound. The city used it as a stormwater drain now, which was a relief, but that didn't stop rats and the occasional piece of rubbish from above finding its way down and floating past. They had brought lanterns – old fashioned oil and wick affairs that John had insisted on. Geoff had a torch in his pocket for emergencies – oil and wick was all well and good, but if you dropped the bloody thing it would go out – or set you on fire. His torch was supposed to be shock and water proof: they'd soon see which option was better.
There was a jarring clang and a foul scented wind pushed suddenly along the tunnel, making their lanterns flicker alarmingly and throw up a myriad of confusing shadows. Voices shouted, familiar and yet not, and when things steadied down, John was standing slightly in front of Geoff and Sherlock, arms outstretched.
On the other side of the tunnel, where there hadn't been anyone at all, was another pair of men. One was tall, thin, dark hair slicked back, wearing a black suit in a very old fashioned cut: the other was average height, wearing a frock coat, moustache and military air. He looked like a Victorian version of John Watson and Geoff would have demanded to know about unreported hallucinogens in the area if the new tall man hadn't snapped,
"Careful Watson!"
"I've got it, Holmes," was the short reply. Their voices were the same and Geoff resigned himself to the fact that he was looking at some sort of alternate dimension representation of his two friends. This sort of thing got easier to accept the longer you knew Sherlock and John.
There was another growl, and Geoff felt his Pet press tightly against his legs in response. His eyes refocused and he noticed – how had he missed it – the demon standing in-between John and … John.
It was man shaped, as tall as Sherlock and covered in blood. It held some sort of meat in its hands, which it gobbled up as Geoff watched. Both John's shouted something indistinct, which meant they were casting and Sherlock pulled the cork from his bottle of solution. On the other side of the tunnel, Holmes – because who else would be helping a Victorian version of John Watson hunt demons through the sewers – did the same.
"Watson, we've lost Lestrade," Holmes called, his voice sounding tense. Geoff narrowed his eyes at the other man. Typical – even in the past, Sherlock Holmes had been dragging Geoff Lestrade along and then abandoning him as the whim struck. Geoff hoped that his counterpart was not permanently lost…
"We haven't," Sherlock called back sharply, jerking his head at Geoff, who lifted the containment vessel that John had charged him to keep ready in salute. Holmes looked proper astonished for a moment, and then the two Mages in the middle started chanting again, mirroring each others movements in eerie synch.
John had drilled them in what they needed to do, and so Geoff made sure that he paid very careful attention to what was being said and what gestures were being made. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a strip of cloth bound around the Victorian Holmes' hand, a Rune stitched very carefully onto it. He wondered if it would create a paradox to slip the other Watson a sharpie – the Runes were easier to put on and usually wore off by the end of whatever magic the Mage was performing. Geoff had wondered if the absorbed Runes would have a cumulative affect, but put that thought aside for another time.
Both Watson's had set fire to their blood again, each from a cut on their right hand. The resulting flames were an icy blue, which burnt so coldly that the temperature in the tunnel took an abrupt nose dive for the worst. Geoff understood the need for the lanterns now – they provided a very valuable source of heat as well as light. His Pet was pressed tightly to his legs now, growling a steady defiance at the demon in the centre of the magical web the two Mages were forming with their blood-fire. It was an inexplicable comfort to him – to know that there was something there that cared about him and wanted to keep him safe. Although John took the safety of those he protected seriously, Sherlock would always come first with the Mage of London, which was just as it should be.
Sherlock straightened from where he stood and unscrewed the lid of the wide mouthed jar he held, holding it poised for a moment before twirling his wrist and throwing the contents – herbs and other such ingredients – into the blue fire with a dexterous twist. The trapped demon shrieked and the two Mages stepped up their chanting: turning their fire into chains that bound the demon in place. Wind whipped up once more, a whirling vortex that centred on the captive and Geoff tensed: his hands ready to unstop the earthen vessel he held.
"Now, Lestrade!" Holmes called from the other side of the tunnel, Sherlock's voice echoing the call mere seconds later. Geoff pulled the cork – a real cork, old and marred with soot and crumbling red wax – from the neck of the vessel. At his feet, his Pet snarled, pressing harder against him. Sherlock slipped around behind him, passing long arms underneath Geoff's to steady him as the vessel bucked and the now screaming demon was sucked into it, chains and all. The instant the last of the cold chains rattled into the vessel, Geoff shoved the cork back in, securing it with a firm smack of his fist.
There was a shocking moment of quiet and then his Pet purred, rubbing against his legs in approval and pride.
"I agree, Inspector," Watson from the past spoke up, "Very well done indeed."
"Congratulations, Lestrade. You've just caught Jack the Ripper," Holmes from the past added, moving to take his own Mage in his arms, even as Sherlock was doing now.
"Thanks," Geoff nodded with all the sangfroid he could muster, trying to look as if he did this all the time, "Do me a favour and find your Inspector Lestrade please."
"Of course," Watson agreed as they melted away, the tunnel growing darker as the ghosts? Inter-dimensional travellers? faded back into the past. Geoff looked down at the frost covered container in his hands and shivered.
"Jack the Ripper… so that was Catherine Eddowes flesh it was eating. She's popularly considered to be the last confirmed victim of the Ripper," he mused, shaking his head, "You two take me to some interesting sights."
"You know how I hate to be bored," Sherlock replied, rare humour glittering in his eyes and Geoff barked a laugh. It was out of place and irreverent, but then again so were the two men standing spoon like opposite him.
"Come on, we've got work to do if we're to seal that container for all time and bury it properly," John stirred out of Sherlock's arms, "How do you feel about a trip to Stonehenge, Geoff?"
"Why not? It will give you time to explain how it was that the past and present are apparently a mirror of each other," Geoff replied while his Pet chuffed agreement.
AN – In the Jack the Ripper accumulated information available on the web, there are only five victims that everyone can agree on as Jack the Rippers definite work. (Known as Canonical Victims). Catherine Eddowes was the fifth and final victim that everyone accepts as the Rippers work. The Ripper disappeared without a trace and was active at the same time as ACD's Sherlock Holmes. This is a 'what if' scenario that popped into my mind as to why the Ripper was never publicly chased by Sherlock Holmes and why he disappeared so suddenly…
End (for now…)
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