Title: Checkmate

Author: Rewrittengirl (Leffie) and Yours Truly-Jill the Ripper (Izzi)

Fandom: Sherlock (TV series)

Wordcount: 1,508 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: Well, we just finished the first chapter anywho, so we're going to go ahead and post it! Hope you guys love it!

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.

"John, where's my skull?"

"I don't know where your skull is, Sherlock."


"Do you really need the thing anyway? Honestly."

"Of course I do. Don't be stupid."

John glared over the frantic detective's way, flipping his paper down and setting it on his lap. "You anger me sometimes..."

Sherlock looked under the couch cushions, under the settee, by the window sill, in the kettle on the stove (though only the Lord knows how it'd fit in there), grumbling all the way. "I should like to think I anger you all the time..." he huffed.

The morning was, unsurprisingly, damp. A very light breeze had flung itself through London earlier, blowing the morning dew off with the few leaves that had already turned. It wasn't a lasting thing, though; the weather was perhaps too unpredictable in the city. Fog in the wee hours, rain at the break of dawn, wind, fog, and then more rain. Mix it up a bit and... you may get a typical London week.

However, this particular Autumn morning was different. Through the dew and light drizzle, the fog had stayed intact, sticking-no, clinging-to the pavement as if for lifeblood. Not startlingly odd behavior, but curious all the same. Of course, 'curious' was what Sherlock Holmes did best.

Said very curious man scuttled over to John's chair, moving the doctor roughly and firmly out of the way. "I bet you're sitting on it..." he mumbled.

"I'm not sitting on it Sherlock!" He glared at his friend, knocking and punching at him. "That's completely ridiculous!"

Sherlock grinned passingly at him, moving over to the fire place to perhaps hunt among the ashes for a skull that was clearly no where in sight. "Mrs. HUDSON!" he suddenly called. "Where. Is. My. SKULL?"

He was answered with a light thumping noise on the stairs, followed by a click as the door was opened and the woman herself made her way through. Mrs. Hudson carried a rubbish bag in tow, which she was pawing through.

"I don't know what you boys are up to, but here-" She carefully picked out the remains of Holmes' skull, holding it carefully between her thumb and forefinger. "-Is this what you were looking for, Sherlock dear?" With an unassuming smile, she held it out for him.

Sherlock flipped his head toward the woman, his hair bouncing gaily, though his face was the exact opposite. It displayed such a look of deep and utter remorse that John couldn't help but go "awww" in his mind. The poor, crushed man dropped to his knees at Mrs. Hudson's feet, weeping for his fallen friend. Well... He says friend.

"Frank! Whyyyyyy?" he cried like a child. John rolled his eyes, and smacked hm on the head with the paper.

"Get up, you dolt. I'll get you a new skull."

Sherlock huffed, picking himself up an taking the bag from his landlady, glaring slightly and cradling the bag with care. "It won't be the same..." he mumbled, looking into the bag and shuffling to the kitchen.

"Have I done something?" Mrs. Hudson chirped, craning her neck to watch Sherlock's retreat. Before John could even chuckle, the slightly open door was knocked on yet again. "My, you two will be hosting a party once we're done with you," she tutted, turning around instinctively to answer the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" exclaimed the voice from the doorway. John recognized the speaker as Mrs. Hudson's newest lodger, Mr. Griffiths. The man had seemingly popped onto her doorstep from nowhere, with a wad of cash and nowhere to go. He'd been eagerly helping make the flat downstairs a great deal more presentable in the month or so he'd been there, but Watson had never really had the chance to speak to him and he doubted that Holmes had even noticed his existence after moving day.

"Victor, Victor, come in. Don't just stand out there." The man looked unsure for a moment, glancing to John, before following the woman's orders. Technically, it was still her house.

She fussed over him, picking dried paint off of his rolled sleeves. "Er, hi!" Mr. Griffiths greeted John, glancing down at his landlady rather nervously.

John looked over to the kitchen, where the disgruntled detective sat at the table, trying to piece his dear friend Frank together with superglue. He shook his head, rolling his eyes and turned back to the new lodger. He moved confidently over to the man and stuck out his hand. "John Watson." He nodded curtly with a slight smile. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"Shame," the man returned, an amiable smile spreading across his face as he shook John's hand. "Victor Griffiths." Mr. Griffiths appeared to be a bit worn-down, probably from the work he was doing downstairs, but it didn't detract from his looks; he had what their landlady had referred to as "dark charms," with wavy black hair and friendly eyes of a very intense light blue. He also towered over both her and John, though he hung back a bit, making it less noticeable.

Mrs. Hudson had since quit her nitpicking, and was gathering up the filled rubbish bin when Victor let go of John's hand to look back at her.

"Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, there's someone at the door for you," the lodger added.

She sighed. "Of course- there always is!" the little woman murmured as she headed toward the door.

"Oh, and Mrs. Hudson-"

"I don't have the paint scraper, Victor!" she called back from the hallway. There was a moment of silence before Victor chuckled slightly.

"Guess she's not the only detective on the premises, yeah?" he asked, glancing over at Sherlock.

The detective's eyes roamed to the man he'd previously been ignoring. "John what is this stranger doing in our home?" he said, a hint of protectiveness crowding his words.

Just as John suspected. He hadn't known he'd existed. "Sherlock..." he mumbled, glaring at the man. "Sherlock, this is the new lodger, Victor Griffiths, remember?"

Holmes looked at the man long and hard, before getting up and dumping the miserable skull who wouldn't cooperate in the garbage, brushing his hands and puttering around the kitchen, quite bored. "Deleted."

John slapped his palm quietly to his face, rubbing his temple and smiling nervously at the lodger. "Sorry, he's always like this."

Victor smiled widely. "No, no, it's fine. Deleted or not... pleased to meet you, Mr. Sherlock." He gave a nod, but didn't bother to go over and try to shake his hand. Smart guy.

Sherlock ignored him, in favor of occupying himself with examining a pair of thumbs he'd gathered from the morgue, digging underneath the nails for some sort of kind of dirt.

The doctor gulped, turning back to Victor with a fright. "Um, yes, well... What's it you need again?" he said quickly, itching to block the lodger's view of his flatmate.

"Oh, well, I was sure that Mrs. Hudson had something I needed, but she didn't, so I figured I'd check here." A pause, and then he questioned, "Paint scraper?"

John racked his brain a bit until he realized he honestly didn't know. "Sherlock?" he called over, hoping his friend would have an answer.

The man ignored him.

"Sherlock...!" he said, storming into the kitchen. "Are you even listening to me? Did you even hear his question?"

John still bothering him over his experimental shoulder, Sherlock pulled out his mobile, holding it in his hand until the screen buzzed with a text message, detailing his next case with perfect clarity. "Right on time, Lestrade!" he said happily, jumping up and leaving the experiment behind.

John rolled his eyes, following Sherlock back into the living room. "If you expect me to clean all that up, you've got another thing coming!"

Sherlock slipped on his coat and pulled on his scarf, taking his riding crop and sliding his way past the unsuspecting lodger, and calling over his shoulder to John, "It's in Whitechapel. Hurry up John, we're going to be late!"

John groaned, pulling on his jacket with an apologetic look at the man. "Sorry, he's unresponsive when he's on a case."

"Heh, really, it's fine. Good luck on it, whatever it is!" He smiled again, picking at the dried paint on his sleeve.

John looked down to grab his phone, and noticed a tool bucket sitting on the table. "Ah!" he exclaimed, picking up the tool with a spin, handing it fleetingly to the dark haired man. "There's your scraper, Mr. Griffiths." He raced down the stairs, calling back, "See you later!"

The lodger barely got in a 'goodbye' before both of the men were out the front door.

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