It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Colin Bridgerton is a breast man, specifically the breasts of one Penelope Featherington.
Poor boy has dreamt of doing the most obscene things to and with her delicate bosom, distracting things, things he should be utterly ashamed of... Would be ashamed of if he thought there was the smallest chance that Penelope wouldn't welcome each and every touch.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Penelope Featherington longs to run her fingers through soft brown hair, specifically the hair of one Colin Bridgerton.
Poor girl has dreamt of wrapping his beautiful locks around her fingers, of dragging her nails against the sensitive skin of his scalp until his eyes close and his lips part in a barely audible moan, of grabbing a handful of hair and pulling him into her demanding kisses until he willing surrenders to her passionate demands... Should feel embarrassed by her wanton desires if she weren't absolutely certain that Colin would willing fall to his knees before her at the first gentle tug.
A post apocalyptic world, desolate and ravaged by acid storms, scarce resources, murderous packs of wild animals and even more dangerous gangs of humans fighting to protect what ground and supplies they have claimed.
A small band of weathered survivors have traveled from city to city, town to town, for years. They've been searching for a community to accept them. Baring that, a safe place to bunk down for a few nights would be a dream come true.
While cautiously creeping through a new town, unseen things moving in the shadowed alleys, the feeling of eyes watching their every move; they realize the sky has turned an ominous red. A storm is coming. Fast.
They only have minutes to reach shelter, darting through tall iron gates topped the remnants of some kind of logo. Only the broken letters "on a" are recognizable.
The inside of the large factory is in surprisingly good condition. The walls have seen better days, the power is off, the air is heavy and oppressive and carries a vague sickeningly sweet undertone. But the structure as a whole seems solid and, most importantly, the roof is intact.
They travel deeper into the building, a single torch lighting their way, and open a set of doors, only to be hit by more of that sickening sweetness. The room inside is large and covered by mounds and weird shapes covered in some kind of mold or fungus. Oddly, there appears to be a boat at the far end of the room.
Boats mean water. The allure of the possibility of fresh water draws them closer. But the liquid wasn't fresh, or drinkable, or even water. It is brown, sludgy, and almost still as glass... until they reach the bank.
Suddenly, a few overhead lights come on, flickering maddeningly. The doors slam shut behind them, the click of a lock loud enough to echo through the room. The dark sludge began to shift, building up to a slow moving current that makes the docked boat gently bob and rock, causing a desiccate corpse in a once vibrant suit and top hat to tip over the side and into the muck.
Then, as if it were coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, the sound of a hellish chorus slithers through the air...
Do I want to write a ficlet based on the idea of a group chat with Dracula's three brides (and sometimes Dracula - I'd name the chat something like "Three Goddesses and the cranky old bat") where they mainly gossip and complain about Dracula and the stupid things he does?
Sometimes they block him and kick him out of the chat, but he comes back nearly immediately because he's the Master of the Castle and everything in it (and also the wifi), Damn It!
Guest appearances by Lucy and Mina and maybe Jonathan. Anybody who gets pulled into Dracula's telepathic mind f*ckery.
Mind f*ckery = phone group chat
If I knew how to do those text chat graphic things I'd probably be all over it.
I started a spooky fic for @simplyshelbs16xoxo Sherlolly Screamfest (look at me trying to come out of my writing semi-retirement... and failing) but got distracted by things like "there's a cozy game on the Switch that I've been meaning to play" and "I can't type on the computer because the kitten needs to use me as a pillow so I can't move from this spot for the next two hours" and "why do hard things when there are dog grooming videos on the youtubes and naps to be napped" during all my free time.
Crossing my fingers I may finish it even though Spooky Season is almost over. (j/k, spooky season is never over)
Should I repost another Universally Monstrous fic today? Sure, why not.
So here’s another one:
On Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055406
and below the ‘Keep Reading’ for the linkphobic
Universally Monstrous - Frankenstein
They were four bodies in before someone noticed a pattern.
It was Philip Anderson, of all people, who made the first connection.
His habit of monitoring the news and scouring the usual internet sites every day (originally looking for any tidbit of information that might lead to Sherlock’s whereabouts during the two years he’d been “dead”, or a case that might interest the missing man enough to draw his attention back to London) had diminished but not disappeared after the Empty Hearse club’s focus had shifted from conspiracy theories to more of a Sherlock Holmes appreciation society. Even though several people thought he’d turned into a bit of a delusional weirdo, he had been a respectable forensic pathologist at one time.
(Or “respectable” if you asked Sherlock, which no one did.)
Therefore, as a conspiracy nutter and a man who had examined crime scenes and analysed evidence for a living, he was uniquely qualified to gather all the information and put two and two together.
Although, technically, it was more one plus two plus one plus one. Because while the first, third, and fourth bodies found were missing a left leg from the hip joint down, a right foot, and a left arm cut off at the wrist, number two had turned up without either of his hands.
Four victims, five body parts, and zero leads.
Until a fifth victim was found with just enough trace evidence to make Sherlock squirm in delight at his kitchen microscope. He’d even gone so far as thanking Philip for bringing him the case.
Then he’d sent off a series of texts, stood in front of his newly constructed wall of crime scene photos and information, and gestured toward the door. He told Philip to go away so he could think—in a far politer manner than usual—and told him that he could come back in five hours when the people Sherlock had texted would be arriving. On the condition that Philip promised to not be so . . . Anderson-ish, of course.
Philip had eagerly agreed.
Mrs Hudson had let him in that evening, just five (fifteen) minutes early, and told him Sherlock had run off in a rush an hour before but he was welcome to go up and wait. And wait he did as first John Watson, then Greg Lestrade, and finally Molly Hooper trudged up the stairs to Sherlock’s rooms.
The others cast him a few odd looks, but no one actually came out and asked why he was there. They made increasingly awkward small talk until John broke. “Does anyone know where Sherlock is or why he wanted us all here?”
Molly and Greg murmured no, but Philip jumped up from his seat at Sherlock’s desk. “I do! Well, not where he’s at right now, but I know why we’re here.”
He jumped up on the sofa, ignoring all three versions of “You can’t do that” that were hissed behind him, and pointed at the first series of photos. “It’s fine. I helped Sherlock set all this up. He won’t mind me getting us started. Probably.”
He jabbed his finger at the image of victim number one. “Ruiz Serrano, up and coming blind-side flanker who hadn’t quite made it into pro rugby, but was apparently on the radar of a few teams. He was found twelve days ago, here.” Philip moved his finger to point out the location on the map that was the centre of Sherlock’s set up. “Cause of death was strangulation. The removal of the leg was post-mortem, and had to have occurred at a different location. No hesitation wounds. The dismemberment was clean and precise.” He looked up to find the others staring at him.
Greg gaped. “My God, it’s like listening to a mini-Sherlock.”
Philip felt his skin heat in embarrassment. “He-we went over this earlier today.” More specifically, Sherlock had thought out loud while he paced around the sitting room and Philip had hung on his every word, excited to just be part of an investigation again.
John snorted.
Philip cleared his throat and gestured to the next set of photos. “Both hands missing this time. Body found here.” He pointed to another location.
“I remember that one.” Greg stood up and came closer to the sofa. “The other one wasn’t in my jurisdiction, but this was one of mine. Strangulation, clean amputation. Victim was a-“ He faltered as he searched his memory.
“Surgeon,” Molly supplied.
“Thanks.” Greg offered her an appreciative smile. “Disappeared on the way home from a night with his mistress. His wife wanted to keep the salacious bits out of the public eye and her father knows people so . . .” He eyed Philip. “How did you find out about the hands? We kept that out of the press.”
Philip looked rather proud of himself. “I have my ways,” he said, trying to sound mysterious. Greg narrowed his eyes and Philip flushed and pointed to the wall. “Three was a runner, right foot gone. Four went missing from his gym, an arm this time.”
He pointed to yet another pin on the map. “Number five was found last night. Well, some of him at any rate.”
“What did they take this time?” John asked.
“The entire trunk, neck to groin. Minus the . . .” he gestured toward his own crotch.
Greg and John winced but Molly ignored them as she joined Philip to stand on the sofa. She studied the photos of the bodies.
“What is he doing?” Greg asked, clearly thinking out loud.
“Taking trophies?” John toss out, trying to help brainstorm.
“But what is he going to do with them?” Greg wondered.
Philip opened his mouth to reply but Molly beat him to it. “He’s making a man.”
The former forensic pathologist/current president of the largest official Sherlock Holmes fan club in the London area deflated somewhat. “Yeah, that’s what Sherlock thought, too. He said the killer was harvesting from the best specimens he could find in his hunting zone. None of the victims were exactly right as is, but when you broke them down into individual parts and put them all together?”
“The perfect man,” Molly whispered.
Greg grimaced. “That’s messed up.”
John pulled a chair away from Sherlock’s table and opened the laptop there. “Okay, so we’ve got a nutter who thinks he’s Doctor Frankenstein running around. Assuming there aren’t victims out there we aren’t aware of, he’s still missing parts. Let’s make a list and see what we can come up with from there.”
Philip, Molly, and John quickly began to throw out suggestions and Greg silently let them run out of steam. He sat in John’s chair and jotted down notes about the different locations of the body dumps and victims, looking for a common link between them.
“So we’ve got another arm, a leg and foot, the head and . . .” John gestured toward Philip’s crotch.
“Genitals,” Molly huffed. “You can say genitals.”
Greg pretended he hadn’t heard her. “He seems to go for the athletic types.”
John shook his head. “The hands came from a surgeon, remember? Look at his picture, I doubt he spent too much time at a gym. And he definitely isn’t a runner.”
“He wanted dexterity with the hands, not strength.” Molly stepped off the sofa and plopped down to sit on it. “So we’re looking for the best of the best. How do you even begin to narrow down the best penis in the city? What criteria would you use? I mean, is he looking for purely physical attributes or is he taking things like stamina into consideration? What about fertility? Philip, did he leave the testicles as well as the penis?”
“Could we not talk about that bit anymore?” Greg looked a little green.
John nodded in agreement. “Right, we’ll come back to the genitals. What else can we focus on?”
Philip thought they were overlooking the most obvious answer. “The head.”
“Someone handsome, then. An actor?” John began to peck at the keyboard of the laptop again.
“Wrong.” Philip rolled his eyes. They really were being obtuse. The killer would definitely be looking for someone smart, someone like . . . Oh no. He paled and had to lean a hand against the wall, ignoring the papers that crinkled under his palm.
Molly immediately looked concerned. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
He shook his head. “Who is the most intelligent man you know?”
“Mycroft,” was John’s immediate answer, followed quickly by another “Mycroft” from Molly and “What they said” from Greg.
“No. Well, yes,” Philip conceded. “But no one is going to be able to get close enough to Mycroft Holmes to cut off his head for nefarious purposes.”
John smirked. “Is there any other kind of purpose for head stealing, other than nefarious ones?”
Philip ignored him as best as he could. “It’s Sherlock. That’s why he’s not here. The killer must have grabbed him and is probably getting ready to cut his head off as we speak.”
John dropped his head into his hands. “It’s more likely Sherlock hunted the man down himself and practically offered up his neck just to satisfy his curiosity.”
Just then Molly’s phone uttered a single word, clearly spoken in Sherlock’s voice (although Philip had never heard that particular soft tone come from Sherlock before). “Molly.”
She blushed. “It’s, uhm, it’s a text. From Sherlock. That’s his, he put that, I didn’t-“ She pulled her mobile out of her pocket. “Oh, it’s an address.”
Another husky “Molly”.
“He says ‘send John and Lestrade, no one else’. And now there’s a picture of-“ She gulped. “It’s really dark, but I can just make out what appears to be most of a body on a surgical table.”
“I knew it!” Philip pushed himself away from the wall and jumped off the sofa, narrowly missing the low table in front of it. He slapped his hands together. “Let’s go rescue Sherlock Holmes!”
“You’re staying here.” Greg pointed at the floor as if it emphasise his statement. “Molly, you should st-“
“Not a chance.” She was already pulling on her coat.
“You can’t come,” John tried to sound intimidating.
“You don’t have the address,” Molly countered. “And if you so much as reach for my phone to take it I will kick you in the genitals so hard you won’t be able to see straight for days.”
John quickly pulled his hand back to his side. “All right then.”
“Fine, we’re all going.” Greg threw his hands up into the air. “Should we invite Mrs Hudson while we’re at it?”
Molly and John shared a look. John cleared his throat. “Actually, that might not be a completely bad idea. She knows . . . things.”
Greg pinched his nose. “I don’t want to know, do I?”
“Probably not.”
“Just to clarify.” Philip hurried after the other three as they stomped down the stairs toward the ground floor. “I’m coming, too, right?”
Because it’s the most wonderful time of the year, I thought I’d share a tiny 200 word drabbly thing I wrote and posted years ago. It’s Sherlolly, in case that’s not your thing. Fair warning.
I’ll add it under the “keep reading” for those of you who don’t feel like going to Ao3.
Happy Halloween, my friends!
Guardian Angel
“Oh, Sherlock,” a voice—soft and gentle—caressed his ears. He felt small, warm hands wipe grime and blood from his cheeks.
His eyes fluttered open just enough to see a familiar face bent over his, blocking the icy rain. “Molly?”
“Look at you, bleeding out, all alone. How many times?” Her hands pulled his soaked shirt open. “You have to be more careful. I can’t keep doing this.”
He tried to scream as her fingers examined the knife wound on his side. “I can’t keep healing you every time you nearly get yourself killed. They’re going to notice eventually. There are rules, Sherlock.”
“Th-they?” he stuttered.
“The Masters.” Molly groaned as she curled over him. Her hands burned against his skin as the wound begin to close. Her jumper shredded under the strain of her shifting form, folded white wings burst from her back.
“Angel?”
“No.” Her voice was velvet, dark and enticing. She smiled as she stroked his brow, and he saw sharp teeth behind her parted lips. He smelled a hint of brimstone as her pale wings unfurled. Instead of feathers, they were leathery and iridescent under the stars, tipped in razor sharp claws. “Not an angel.”
I had at least one person interact with yesterday’s Universal Monster Sherlolly fic so I’m going to assume that means it was an outstanding success and roll with it. Does that mean anyone wants to see another one? No idea. Am I going to repost the next one anyway? Yes.
Is this fic wildly AU, as in Molly does not work at Barts, she’s a forensic pathologist at NYS and she’s never met Sherlock Holmes kind of AU? Also Yes. Fair warning.
So here’s another one:
On Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401896
and below the ‘Keep Reading’ for the linkphobic
Universally Monstrous - The Phantom of the Opera
It was a well-known secret that New Scotland Yard was haunted.
Or “haunted” if you talked to certain people.
The Phantom—as he had been christened by someone who obviously spent far too much time reading paranormal fiction and not enough doing their job—seemed to favour the basement level of the building.
Whispered tales of a rare disembodied voice offering biting criticism and unwanted advice routinely made the rounds through the locker room.
“He said it was criminal that I was allowed in the lab,” Anderson had groused over a shared bag of crisps during an impromptu gossip session after a departmental meeting.
One of the lab techs rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the Phantom isn’t the only one who thinks that. Have you talked to Donovan lately or are you two still fighting?”
Anderson ignored the other man. “I’m not kidding, Hooper. When I checked the shadows to find the owner of the voice, they were empty. The Phantom is real.”
Molly might have scoffed if she hadn’t heard the voice herself.
The first time she’d thought it was a prank, one of the other’s playing a joke on the new hire.
She’d been sitting at her desk during her lunchbreak, working on the first draft of the fictional crime novel (with a hint of romance between the feisty pathologist and the gruff cop with a heart of gold and abs of steel) that had been screaming “Write me!” in her brain for the last few years.
Molly had been slogging away at a particularly frustrating scene, one that delved into the mind and motives of the murderer, when the need for something caffeinated and bag of crisps grew too great to ignore. She’d minimized her document and headed toward the cafeteria. When she’d returned twenty minutes later her manuscript was open on the laptop screen, front and centre, and someone had left a long and detailed paragraph of where she’d left off.
“What the hell?” She’d been extremely annoyed that one of her co-workers had invaded her privacy like that and was mentally preparing the bollocksing of the century when the Voice spoke.
“That’s not how he’d think. Your killer.”
Molly had jumped, “Who are you? Where are you?”
“Don’t be dull,” the Voice admonished her as if it—he—was disappointed in her response. “You know who I am, I hear you lot chattering on about me all the time.”
She huffed. “We don’t chatter.” Molly was met with silence for several seconds. “Well, I don’t, at any rate.”
“True. You do tend to hold your tongue when the some of the others begin to wax poetic about the most ridiculous things.” She’d thought the Voice had been coming from the left before, but now it was clearly coming from the right.
Molly turned a full circle to look for someplace an adult (for he definitely had the deep, smooth voice of a man) could hide. She even ducked to look under the desk.
“Your villain’s thoughts are far too chaotic and disjointed for the methodical serial killer you’ve set him up as.”
“How would you know?” Could the stories be true? Was there really a ghost haunting Forensics? “Is this what you did in a past life? Get into the minds of criminals? Did you work down here, or maybe as detective?”
She thought she heard him laugh, and the husky sound caused a sensation like the touch of warm fingers softly brushing up her spine. She shuddered as he spoke again, “Something like that.”
“So, is this one of those ‘unfinished business’ things, or…”
Molly held her breath and waited but silence was her only answer.
Two weeks later she was sitting at her desk, transcribing her notes from the latest autopsy when she heard, “Excellent catch on the Marshall case.”
“Thanks. I thought it was a long shot, but what could it hurt to run an extra test or two so-“ Her body recognized his voice before her brain did. Her skin tingled and something at her core warmed even as she spun in her chair to search the room with her eyes.
Three days after that, she’d been working on her novel during another lunch break—she’d taken the Phantom’s advice and completely reworked the scene with her villain’s inner thoughts—when she realized she wasn’t completely alone. Her hands stilled on the keyboard. “Hello.”
Molly heard him draw in a startled breath somewhere behind her. “How did you know I was here?”
“You’re not as stealthy as you think.” She slowly turned, completely unsurprised to see that the room was empty. Still, she felt that he was nearby. “I noticed a . . . scent after your last two visits.” It had been clean and masculine, not clouded with cologne or the musky bodywashes that were popular amongst the male staff. “And there was a creak, something shifted under your weight this time.”
He was silent for so long she began to worry he might have left again. “Interesting.” She got the feeling he was watching her, studying her.
“You, uh, you’re not a ghost, are you?” Molly almost tripped over her words.
“Of course not. Didn’t you know, ghosts don’t exist.” He seemed amused.
She heard another creak and her eyes darted around the room, hoping to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. “So you just lurk, then. For fun, or . . .”
“I observe.” As if that explained anything. “Some of your co-workers are idiots. Most of them.”
Molly opened her mouth to argue then shrugged. He wasn’t exactly wrong. “Still, I’m pretty sure what you’re doing isn’t exactly legal. For a vast number of reasons.”
He laughed again, and it made her shudder just like the last time. A good shudder. The kind that was going to keep her awake thinking the sort of things she shouldn’t. “I’ve never been worried about legalities.”
“Aren’t you worried I’m going to run upstairs and report you?” she asked.
“Are you?” The Phantom’s seemed to come from directly behind her, which was impossible as her desk was set against a wall. She didn’t bother turning around as he continued to speak. “Would it make you feel better to know at least one Detective Inspector is aware of my secret, and has been for nearly as long as I’ve been ‘haunting’ the halls.”
It did actually. “Do I know them?”
“Possibly. His name is Lestrade.”
“Oh, I’ve worked with him!” He’d come looking for her six months before, requesting her assistance with a particularly brutal double homicide. “Wait, did you-?”
He hummed, a noncommittal answer if she’d ever heard one.
“Am I allowed you know your name? You obviously know mine and I can’t keep calling you the Phantom like some 1920’s horror movie.” She bit her lip.
After a long moment, he answered. “It’s Sherlock.”
“Sherlock,” Molly tested the word, rolled it around on her tongue like a decadent treat. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “So now that I know you’re real, are you going to show yourself?”
Silence. He was gone. “Okay. I’ll take that as a no.”
Over the next few months she slowly stopped joining her co-workers in the cafeteria for lunch or the afternoon break, telling herself she was choosing to stay in her office to work on her novel.
That Sherlock had become a semi-regular visitor at those times had nothing to do with it.
Right?
She often found herself verbally working out plot points and dialogue, smiling when the disembodied Voice occasionally replied to offer suggestions or encouraged her to think through the moment with only a bit of gentle prodding and praise. Even better, as far as she was concerned, they’d begun to speak of other things. Her life outside of work, bits and pieces of his (although he still kept a tight lip on most everything), books they’d read (they were both voracious readers), all sorts of little things that had begun to add up.
“So this is going to be one of the really difficult bits for me to write.” Molly leaned back in her chair and pushed away from her desk on the squeaky wheels so she could spin around in a lazy circle. They’d been talking for nearly half an hour. “There’s been this building sexual tension between Brandon and Rachel almost from the moment the first met. Now they’ve just survived a near death experience, emotions are high, the attraction is there.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything and Molly sighed. “I know, it’s a cliché but it just seems right at this point in their relationship. But I’ve never really done that. Well, I mean, I’ve done that; just not the passionate, all consuming kind of . . . that.”
He still remained silent. She couldn’t help but fidget. “It’s just, it’s been a long time and even then it was more of a ‘let’s scratch this itch’ than a ‘take me against the wall right this second’ thing. God, I think my ex Tom would have hurt himself laughing if I even dared to suggest it. If anything it was boring and I just wanted to get it over with so I could see if there was anything good on the telly. And I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you any of this.”
“I’m not really sure why you’re doing it, either. What is it you want from me, Molly?” He sounded almost as uncomfortable as she felt. Not for the first time, she wished she could see his face to better read his emotions.
“Well, you’re . . . You’ve got that voice. And you’re smart. And you have a wicked sense of humour. I know you hang around here most of the time, but surely you-you’ve . . . I can’t imagine there would be a mad scramble for the remote with you. That is, with you and-and the person you were with. So, I was hoping you could help reel me in if I get a little too . . . unrealistic? With the scene?” That was it. She was going to go home and drown her embarrassment in a carton of cookies and cream ice cream and try to pretend she’d never started this conversation.
He sighed. “Molly, I don’t know what you imagine I do when I’m not here, but I am absolutely positive it isn’t whatever you think it is.”
“What?”
“Fuck it,” Sherlock sighed. The large shelving unit that was bolted to the wall slowly swung inward to reveal a dark doorway. She could just make out a tall figure standing in the shadows.
Molly got to her feet as he stepped into the room and she saw him clearly for the first time. He was tall and fit, dark but impeccably tailored clothes, a mop of soft looking curls, and a strange black mask that covered the left half of his face.
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” she asked. She’d referenced the old Phantom of the Opera movie before, did he take that as a challenge? Was he making fun of her?
“I wish it was.” Sherlock lowered his head and reached up to carefully remove his mask. He took a deep breath before he lifted his face and turned toward her fully.
Whatever had happened to him had ruined half of his face. He was lucky he was still able to see out of his left eye. “How?”
“Acid. I’d barely begun working with Lestrade as a Consulting Detective—you wouldn’t have heard of the term, I invented the position—and the abusive husband of one of my clients decided to get his revenge. It could have been worse. As you noticed, I was able to keep my eye and my mouth and vocal cords were virtually undamaged. Believe it or not, I was even more of a socially inept arsehole and my interest in relationships had been virtually non-existent before the incident. And then this happened.” He gestured to his face. “You can see how off putting this is to another person. It was easier to seclude myself than deal with people every day.”
Molly had questions. A lot of questions. “Okay, I get the wanting to stay away from other people thing, but how in the heck did you get a secret door in the basement of Scotland Yard?”
“Doors, plural. I have a contact in the government and a massive trust fund.” He blinked at her. “Why haven’t you run off or retched on your shoes? Why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?”
“Last week I had to do a post-mortem on a floater who had been in the Thames for several weeks. A disfiguring facial injury and healed scar tissue is nothing in comparison.” She bit her lip and took a step closer. “Could I-Would it be all right if I-“
“Touch my face?” Sherlock asked at the same time Molly worked up the nerve to say, “Get a tour of your underground supervillain lair after my shift ends?”
They stared at each other for a long moment before he nodded. “I guess that would be acceptable. As long as no one saw you roaming the halls after you were supposed to be gone. As incompetent as most of the idiots upstairs can be, they are trained law enforcement officers.”
Molly smiled. “One more question, and this one is super important. Can you get wi-fi down there?”
Universally Monstrous - The Creature from the Black Lagoon
I fully intend to turn this fun-sized ficlet into a full-sized fic one day - as in I have the rest of the story outlined and half of the second chapter already written and I just need to get off my rear and finish it already!
Until then . . .
So here’s another one:
On Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183736
and below the ‘Keep Reading’ for the linkphobic
Universally Monstrous - The Creature from the Black Lagoon
The Molly Malone – Docked at the Port of Tilbury – 1895
The stink of rotting fish and something worse tainted the air, assaulting Sherlock’s sensitive sense of smell. He briefly considered pulling out his handkerchief to cover his nose; but decided it wouldn’t do to risk offending the local fishermen.
At least until he had gotten what he’d come for.
His carriage came to a bumpy stop. Even as he exited, his driver was questioning the closest dock worker for the location of the Molly Malone.
She was a small vessel in comparison to many of her counterparts moored nearby. Built to transport cargo rather than passengers. Older but well kept, indicating the Skipper cared for his ship and crew. Not the kind of ship a common conman would helm.
Interesting.
Still, he knew better than most that appearances could be deceiving.
The Skipper was waiting to welcome him aboard.
A charlatan eager to show off his wares to an unsuspecting rube?
Sherlock followed the Skipper down into the hold. In the middle of the otherwise empty space was a large tank full of murky water. The other man slowed as he approached the tank, stopping well away from the glass enclosure.
There was something roughly the size and shape of a human curled upon itself in a back corner of the tank, although the dim light of the lanterns and the filthy water made it difficult to discern much more.
“There she is.”
The “creature” in the tank stirred at the sound of the Skipper’s voice. What he first assumed to be arms wrapped around its body began to unfurl with slow, deliberate movements; revealing what could only be described as the forked tail fins of some kind of a marine animal.
The rest of its body came into view. The torso was bare of clothing and clearly feminine in nature. If he were another man, Sherlock might turn his gaze away in an effort to protect her modesty. Instead, he watched intently as she planted her hands against the floor of the tank and propelled herself across the too-small enclosure to the pane of glass closest to him.
In contrast to the human appearance of her upper body, her scaled lower half was long enough to coil upon itself and terminated in the forked tail fins he’d glimpsed earlier.
Her hair was long; black or brown, it was difficult to tell as it drifted in the gentle ebb of the water. Now that she was near, he could see that her facial features were soft. Watson might call them elfin in one of his fanciful stories.
He stepped closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Skipper tense; but the other man remained silent.
Sherlock tilted his head as he continued to catalogue the creature’s appearance.
There were multiple odd folds of skin along the sides of her neck that seemed to subtly flutter in time with the rise and fall of her chest.
Gills? his mind supplied, even though he knew the concept was ludicrous at best.
He realized she had also tilted her head to the side, as if to mimic him. As a matter of fact, she appeared to be studying him just as intently as he had her. Her brown eyes were bright and intelligent, even through the dull veil of filthy water. She held his gaze for an uncomfortably long moment, before her lips titled upward in a hint of a smile.
“What do you think?” the Skipper asked, pride heavy in his voice.
“I think I’m looking at a fake, albeit a well-constructed one.” The Skipper huffed, but Sherlock ignored him. Surely the woman in the tank would need to surface soon, or risk betraying the presence of a breathing apparatus of some sort. His mind raced to calculate how long the average human female could survive without air before losing consciousness.
“She’s as real as you or I.”
Sherlock scoffed, “Impossible.” Yet, even as he spoke, he began to feel an uncharacteristic shadow of doubt.
She pressed her hand against the glass. He found himself taking another step closer to the tank with his hand upraised to return the gesture before he caught himself.
Her hand was small.
“Delicate,” Watson’s unwelcome voice intruded upon his thoughts.
But her fingers were tipped in the nails of a predator; short but deadly, as if designed by nature itself to pierce and rend.
His doubts continued to grow. There was no possible way that the woman before him was anything more than an elaborate prank. Was there?
“Impossible or merely improbable?” Mycroft asked, as if leading him toward a deduction like a dog on a leash.
“What do you call her?” Sherlock continued to keep his attention on the tank as he spoke to the Skipper.
“We named her Molly.”
“In honour of the ship and her crew, I presume?”
“Aye. It seemed fitting at the time.”
Sherlock noted the past tense. “But not now?”
He briefly glanced at the Skipper. The other man looked uneasy, but he kept his mouth shut.
Molly’s earlier smile hardened and grew smug, as if she held some piece of knowledge that Sherlock was not privy to. Whatever it was, he wanted it.
Clearly, whether she was human or some fabled creature from the watery depths, Molly could understand what they were saying.
“How long have you had her?”
“A few days,” the Skipper was quick to answer.
Too quick.
Sherlock turned to stare the man down.
“A week.”
Sherlock arched his brow.
“A month.”
That seemed plausible. Sherlock was content to let the matter drop for the moment. Especially with something far more important to unearth. “What happened to convince you to surrender her?”
The Skipper flexed his hand at his side, curling the fingers into a fist. “What do you mean?
“Come, come, man. Surely you realized that putting the creature on display would be far more profitable than selling her to the British government.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he considered the evidence before him. “The crudely constructed barricade across the top of the tank, with no means to remove the bars should she needs to be released. An unplanned addition constructed in haste.”
He turned to face the Skipper fully. “You’ve kept a cautious distance… No, not cautious. Fearful. You’re scared of her.”
The Skipper blanched and Sherlock knew he was correct.
“I ask again, what happened?”
“There was an accident. She grew listless after a few days. Stayed at the bottom of the tank. Refused the fish we’d been giving her. I started to worry. The whole crew did. Like you said, she was worth far more to us alive than dead.” The Skipper closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he was going to say next.
“Nelson thought she might be temped by something fresher, on account of her being used to catching live fish and whatnot for her supper. The next time we brought up a net, he set a few aside in a bucket and brought them to her.” The other man refused to look at the creature. “He said he climbed a stack of crates and leaned over the side to offer the fish, and that’s all he remembers until we found him over there.” He jerked his head toward an area to the side of the tank.
“He was screamin’ and bleedin’, soaking wet, clutching his hand to his chest like a wee babe. He must have lost his balance. Cut himself on the glass or a jagged bit of metal trying to catch himself when he fell in and severed two of his fingers.” He finally met Sherlock’s eyes, and the detective knew that the Skipper didn’t actually believe a word he’d just said. “We… never found them.”
Sherlock looked at the creature and noticed that the upward tilt of her thin lips had parted in a large, predatory grin to reveal a mouthful of dangerously sharp teeth. There was no doubt in his mind as to where Nelson’s missing digits had gone. “I’ve seen enough.”
“Aye. And your verdict? Will you take her?”
“That’s not my decision to make. Someone will be in contact with you soon enough, regardless.”
The Skipper looked as if he were about to argue, but a quelling look from Sherlock had him biting his tongue. “Best let you be on your way, then.”
They’d barely made it two steps toward the door of the hold when a sweet trill filled the room. Sherlock turned to find that Molly had wrapped her hands around the bars at the top of the tank and pulled herself up until her face was just above the waterline. She opened her mouth and the sound issued forth once more, rising and falling like a melody. Her song called to him, and he found himself swaying on his feet.
“That will be enough of that,” the Skipper snarled.
Molly slowly lowered herself and returned to the far corner to curl up once more. She kept her eyes trained on him the entire time.
