Sherlock Fanfic: The Scottish Ploy (JWP#15)
Title: The Scottish Ploy
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, case-ficlet, silliness, prank, 'witchcraft', Shakespeare,
Warnings: None
Word Count: 655
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #15: Throw The Book At 'Em: Include a literary reference. Eh, sort of. Bonus non-literary crack cross-fandom reference.
Summary: Cases like this are what made Sherlock turn to telecommuting.
The Scottish Ploy
"Three girls, missing." The landlord stood in the doorway of the small flat, arms crossed. "I called the police, but they just say they're Uni students and probably went to Paris for the weekend. I told them about the witchcraft, but they just scoffed. Scoffed!"
John could tell Sherlock was a bit beyond scoffing as he looked at the display set up in the kitchen of the flat shared by three students attending University College London. For himself, he just tried very hard not to laugh outright, putting on the 'serious/attentive' face he used when someone came into the surgery with something unlikely crammed into an orifice.
Sherlock however, snorted. "Please. No self-respecting practitioners of witchcraft ever had a plastic cauldron with cartoon stars and moons embossed on the sides." Sherlock dipped his fingers in the contents of the cauldron, swishing them around to raise a few desultory suds. "Let alone one full of water, Fairy liquid, and at one point, dry ice."
"Dry ice?" John queried.
Sherlock tapped a brittle grey patch on the black plastic rim before wiping his damp fingers on the damp silver-threaded black shawl draped over the kitchen worktop. Water puddled on the floor nearby.
"What about that hellish symbol drawn in blood?" The man gestured at the fridge. Something red and sticky was smeared on it in the shape of an upside down question mark with three rays coming from the period, forming a sort of cross.
John nodded sagely, holding on to his 'serious/attentive' face as tightly as possible to fight down an attack of giggles. "Ah. Blue Oyster Cult."
Sherlock stared at John as if he'd sprouted antlers.
"It's a cult!" The landlord crowed. "I knew it! I told them! I told the police! Witchcraft!"
"Ah. Noooo." John gave in and chuckled. "I'd guess neither of you have much experience with American heavy metal bands?"
Sherlock's face indicated the antlers he'd seen sprouting from John's head had just erupted into flowers that smelled of dead skunk. The landlord just said "Eh?"
"To be honest I wouldn't know myself if there hadn't been this one American Transport Sergeant in Kandahar who played 'Don't Fear the Reaper' at top volume whenever she drove an APC off-base." John pointed at the markings on the fridge. "She had a tattoo. Blue Oyster Cult. It's a band. That's their symbol."
After a long assessing blink, Sherlock turned away from both John and the symbol on the fridge with an unimpressed grunt, and addressed the landlord. "It's also obviously done with ketchup and not blood of any sort, so if your Uni students were attempting any kind of black magic, their methodology lacks conviction."
"What about the spell, though?" The landlord pointed at a sheet of paper on the worktop next to the cauldron.
"Ah yes." Sherlock grabbed up the slightly damp sheet of A4 and read out loud:
"We three shall meet in north-most Skye
Where woods may creep up on the hills
And Kings may die and Queens may wail
And foul deeds earn their own rewards
The Ides of May we shall return
To London ere our work be done."
"A spell!" cried the credulous landlord.
"A note," Sherlock snapped. "Your tenants have gone on a trip to Inverness. They'll be back May 15th."
The landlord gawped.
Sherlock held the note out toward the landlord as though it was a heavily used tissue. "Dubious trochaic tetrameter-"
"Croquet whatameter?" asked the landlord.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's similar enough in rhythm and content to the witches lines in Shakespeare's play MacBeth, which have a slightly different meter to the rest of- Ugh! Never mind! Add to that that your tenants are first year American students reading Literature at University College London. Of course they're going to go to Cawdor Castle."
"They aren't off to assassinate the Queen with witchcraft, then?" The landlord sounded almost dismayed.
With a faint snarl, Sherlock dropped the damp note in front of the landlord and stomped out of the room.
"Ah. That would be a no," John said to the landlord with a tight smile, following Sherlock's disgruntled exit, stage right.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, case-ficlet, silliness, prank, 'witchcraft', Shakespeare,
Warnings: None
Word Count: 655
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #15: Throw The Book At 'Em: Include a literary reference. Eh, sort of. Bonus non-literary crack cross-fandom reference.
Summary: Cases like this are what made Sherlock turn to telecommuting.
The Scottish Ploy
"Three girls, missing." The landlord stood in the doorway of the small flat, arms crossed. "I called the police, but they just say they're Uni students and probably went to Paris for the weekend. I told them about the witchcraft, but they just scoffed. Scoffed!"
John could tell Sherlock was a bit beyond scoffing as he looked at the display set up in the kitchen of the flat shared by three students attending University College London. For himself, he just tried very hard not to laugh outright, putting on the 'serious/attentive' face he used when someone came into the surgery with something unlikely crammed into an orifice.
Sherlock however, snorted. "Please. No self-respecting practitioners of witchcraft ever had a plastic cauldron with cartoon stars and moons embossed on the sides." Sherlock dipped his fingers in the contents of the cauldron, swishing them around to raise a few desultory suds. "Let alone one full of water, Fairy liquid, and at one point, dry ice."
"Dry ice?" John queried.
Sherlock tapped a brittle grey patch on the black plastic rim before wiping his damp fingers on the damp silver-threaded black shawl draped over the kitchen worktop. Water puddled on the floor nearby.
"What about that hellish symbol drawn in blood?" The man gestured at the fridge. Something red and sticky was smeared on it in the shape of an upside down question mark with three rays coming from the period, forming a sort of cross.
John nodded sagely, holding on to his 'serious/attentive' face as tightly as possible to fight down an attack of giggles. "Ah. Blue Oyster Cult."
Sherlock stared at John as if he'd sprouted antlers.
"It's a cult!" The landlord crowed. "I knew it! I told them! I told the police! Witchcraft!"
"Ah. Noooo." John gave in and chuckled. "I'd guess neither of you have much experience with American heavy metal bands?"
Sherlock's face indicated the antlers he'd seen sprouting from John's head had just erupted into flowers that smelled of dead skunk. The landlord just said "Eh?"
"To be honest I wouldn't know myself if there hadn't been this one American Transport Sergeant in Kandahar who played 'Don't Fear the Reaper' at top volume whenever she drove an APC off-base." John pointed at the markings on the fridge. "She had a tattoo. Blue Oyster Cult. It's a band. That's their symbol."
After a long assessing blink, Sherlock turned away from both John and the symbol on the fridge with an unimpressed grunt, and addressed the landlord. "It's also obviously done with ketchup and not blood of any sort, so if your Uni students were attempting any kind of black magic, their methodology lacks conviction."
"What about the spell, though?" The landlord pointed at a sheet of paper on the worktop next to the cauldron.
"Ah yes." Sherlock grabbed up the slightly damp sheet of A4 and read out loud:
"We three shall meet in north-most Skye
Where woods may creep up on the hills
And Kings may die and Queens may wail
And foul deeds earn their own rewards
The Ides of May we shall return
To London ere our work be done."
"A spell!" cried the credulous landlord.
"A note," Sherlock snapped. "Your tenants have gone on a trip to Inverness. They'll be back May 15th."
The landlord gawped.
Sherlock held the note out toward the landlord as though it was a heavily used tissue. "Dubious trochaic tetrameter-"
"Croquet whatameter?" asked the landlord.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's similar enough in rhythm and content to the witches lines in Shakespeare's play MacBeth, which have a slightly different meter to the rest of- Ugh! Never mind! Add to that that your tenants are first year American students reading Literature at University College London. Of course they're going to go to Cawdor Castle."
"They aren't off to assassinate the Queen with witchcraft, then?" The landlord sounded almost dismayed.
With a faint snarl, Sherlock dropped the damp note in front of the landlord and stomped out of the room.
"Ah. That would be a no," John said to the landlord with a tight smile, following Sherlock's disgruntled exit, stage right.
-.-.-
(that's it)