Author: Rewrittengirl (Leffie) and Yours Truly-Jill the Ripper (Izzi)
Fandom: Sherlock (TV series)
Wordcount: 834 words.
Rating: T for Teen
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Detective Abberline, Molly, an OC, prostitutes, and a lot of suspects.
Pairing(s): Not really any pairings. Sherlock/Watson bromance, that's all.
Genre: Horror, mystery, thriller, adventure, drama
Warning(s): Murder, prostitutes, sexual themes
Contains: Jack the Ripper and the canonical five (god, that sounds like some sort of band, xD), history lessons (since this is partially being written by a ripperologist), a sexy OC by the name of Victor Griffiths who has the face of a god (read: Richard Armitage), more awesomeness than you can handle... Yep, I think that that's about it. 8D
Notes: HERE IS THE SUPER AMAZING SLIGHTLY CROSSOVER FIC I PROMISED YOU! This was written by me and my best friend Jill/Izzi, who I dedicated chapter 10 of Written in the Stars to. I really hope you guys enjoy this, we worked really hard on it! The prologue is entirely written by Jill, but the next chapter is by the both of us. Read and review!
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3 I also don't own Victor Griffiths, that's my best friend Izzi's character.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is smart. Sherlock Holmes is really smart. But as a string of murders evolves in London's red-light district, a new story begins to unfold, and a new game begins. He is put to the test by the infamous Jack the Ripper, and neither will stop until it's checkmate. But, remember: the easiest answer is usually the right one.
"Fuck it," she said, flicking the ash at the butt of her cigarette and pushing off of the wall she had been leaning against.
"It doesn't have to be like this." His voice was deep and calming, but the tone of it was straining. He was trying too hard to be reassuring. She didn't like that in a man; a guy should be able to not only tell you everything was alright, but to know that everything was alright.
"It's always been like this. I take the money, I drink it up, and I move on to the next cock."
"Polly-" She'd turned her back to him to adjust her holey fishnets. His words stopped, as if he had been expecting her to interject. It took her a moment to compose herself and swallow the knot in her throat.
"Look, I'll be fine." A reassuring smile that was anything but reassuring. "I've got this brill hat to keep me safe, yeah?" She raised a hand to tip the brim of her knitted hat—five dollars at some unmemorable department store. Probably the most expensive thing she'd bought in three weeks.
The click of her heels faded into the distance, unstoppable through the rain, even at his calls for her to come back. There wasn't a choice. It was getting freezing on nights now, and there was no chance of sleeping in the park like that. Putting herself up at a hotel had become a nightly feat, and definitely not a cheap one. Now it was half-past three, and she had spent the money she'd already earned that day on buying multiple rounds for her whole posse. Stupid. She did stupid things when she was drunk.
She pulled herself off of the high street, turning a small corner and beginning down a street clearly labeled "DURWARD ". There was a fog clinging to her heels, and she walked a bit slower, a drunken smile coming to her face. She began to shake her boots, chasing away the icy rings before they drifted back—it took her a moment to realize that the steady, sure steps echoing through the street were not her own.
Her head raised and she stumbled, glancing over her shoulder. "James? James, you need to lemme alone... I told ya'-" An abrupt pause. The man's figure was blotted around the edges, a light shadow falling into his face. He wore a long overcoat that reminded her of those detectives in old television shows, and a fedora. Both of them were as black as the edging night around them. "...Well, you certainly ain't James."
The man in the fedora slowly shook his head.
She turned to him fully, tilting her head with a cheeky smile. "Certainly are a looker, you. Interested in a little fun, dear?"
The footsteps started up again, approaching her. Her eyes roamed down, to the briefcase he was carrying.
"A workin' man," she said, her giggle slightly nervous.
Finally, he spoke: "You could say that." The voice was rusty and sharp, like an old razor. He wasn't right, this man. He needed to loosen up.
"Well, right down here we could find a-"
"No." With a flicking gesture, the man waved a gloved hand in the direction of a small indentation in the wall of buildings, blocked by a wooden gate. There was a yard of some sort back there, she remembered.
"Right... well, if you ain't got much time we could go there," she agreed, hiding her disdain. It was always a disappointment when men only wanted a quick fuck, especially in an alley. Getting on her knees in all that shit and litter was a nightmare. But she needed this. "It won't cost hardly nothin', promise."
He set his briefcase down when they stood in front of the doors, taking her face gently in both of his hands. She wasn't used to that at all—actually, it was doubtful that any of them even looked at her while she pleasured them—and so she was stuck there, gazing up at him, perplexed. One of his hands lifted her chin very precisely, while the other slowly slid into her hair, nudging at her new hat. It took her clouded mind a moment to register that he wanted it off.
"Oh," she said, grinning goofily at him, "oh, you like my hair?" She reached up and grabbed the brim, beginning to pull it off.
"Yeah," he replied gruffly, "I love it."
With one rough motion from him, her body was jolted and the side of her face slammed against the wooden gate. She barely had the chance to register the sudden move than she felt a sharp pain in her brow bone. His hands were on her- all over her face, one covering her mouth fast and the other clamping down on her windpipe. There was nothing but his hands- there was nothing but the pressure, nothing but the throbbing red light that blurred her vision.
And then... there was nothing at all.