Gen Fics in the Universe of The Case of the Half-Drained Vics (Buffy and Sherlock and Grimm, oh my)
Two fics from an alternate 'verse I occasionally write in, some of which can, in a scattered way, be found here. For a challenge at universe_the.
At the Crime Scene
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock BBC
Words: 680
Rating: G, Gen
Background: Rupert Giles and the Scoobies have escaped the destruction of Sunnydale, and, after an arduous journey to England, have left the Potentials at the Watchers’ Council headquarters outside London and set themselves down in The City. Giles connects with his childhood friend Detective Inspector Lestrade, where he is swept into an investigation of a peculiar set of serial killings that has left victims, half-drained of their blood, scattered around town. Meanwhile, Buffy and the crew have followed newspaper headlines to the exact crime scene where Giles, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John have just arrived.
Sherlock strode forward toward the caution tape fluttering around the wrought iron gate of the Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club, trailed by John, still complaining about the cost of the cab. He nodded at the four young people who were staring agape at the two men getting out of the police car a ways back. “Californians, I presume,” he said crisply, as his eyes roamed over their persons. His lips moved silently as though cataloging their every detail, catching their attention torn between fascination at his demeanor and their shock at seeing Giles heading toward them, in step with an older, very handsome man with an air of authority, who-
“Oh!” Willow’s eyes widened, and she looked down at the newspaper clutched in her hand, at the blurred photograph, and back to the silver haired man pulling up in front of them, with Giles at his shoulder.
“Good, good, here we all are, then,” said Giles in a tone that sounded unusually hearty, at least to Dawn, who looked at him curiously, as Buffy had a bit of a stare-down with Sherlock and Xander gazed around with an air of mingled excitement and confusion.
“I take it this is your-ahem-school group, Rupert?” Lestrade said challengingly. “Looking to start their training early?”
Giles raised his hands placatingly. “I take no credit for them being here, or blame. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. Well, perhaps a bit.” He leveled a stare at Buffy, then Xander, who startled. “Don’t look at me, I just go where I’m told. You can bet I’m not the one who wanted to follow some blood-stained trai-uhhh, not blood, I mean, yeah, we were just out for a stroll, sight-seeing, what a coincidence, running into you, weird, but they always say, there’s no such thing as coincidences, I mean, what are the odds, that we’d see you and your, whatevers, I mean I wanted to stay at the hotel and watch telly and eat bangers, so-“
“Please, stop talking this instant,” commanded Sherlock. “There’s no need to attempt this clumsy cover-up of your intentions. It’s plain to see that we all know what is going on here-“ he waved his hand at the chorus of “What?” “We do?” and “Not ‘alf” that ensued-“so let’s just get on with it.”
“Social niceties, Sherlock,” interceded John. “Introductions, yes? I’m John Watson-“ he smiled at Buffy, Dawn, Willow, and Xander, “and this rude git is Sherlock. Rupert here you know, I take it, and we got there Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, as I believe the evidence-“ he gestured toward the newspaper folded in Willow’s hand-“has already indicated, as well as providing a clue for why the bloody hell we’re all standing around here, right.”
“Excellent deduction, John, my god, you could be a Consulting Detective with those skills. Now can we get on with it?” Sherlock whirled around, pushed the gate open, and batted aside the caution tape to head toward the courtyard just visible beyond.
“Buffy and Dawn Summers, Willow Rosenberg, and Xander Harris,” said Giles to John and Lestrade, as the young people variously nodded, waved, and grinned. Except for Buffy, who snatched the newspaper from Willow’s hand and turned to follow Sherlock. “I suppose I’ll have to explain everyone later,” murmured Giles, though it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to the Londoners or the Americans, as the rest of them hurried after the two figures striding toward the crime scene.
Meanwhile, In Luton...
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock BBC, Grimm
Words: 785 (157 words from a previously-written fic)
Rating: G, Gen
Background: Mycroft Holmes paused with his gloved finger hovering over the keypad at the gated entry. He closed his eyes momentarily, unfamiliar doubt flooding his mind. He willed himself not to glance back toward the black car at the curb. He hadn't chosen to engage Anthea in his trust; he had no right to request her support now.
It had been many years since he had pressed those numbers (of course, he had never pressed these numbers; the code was changed weekly), many years since he had crossed this threshold. However this current flurry of serial killings, the involvement of his brother, and the surprising appearance of the man Giles made this visit inevitable. In any case, hesitation and doubt were irrational, unproductive. He pressed the requisite numbers with aplomb, and pushed the open the gate to the headquarters of the Watchers' Council.
The doors were opened by an old-school butler in tails and white gloves, which would have startled perhaps anyone except Mycroft Holmes, long inured by upbringing and profession to old-school shows of force. As he entered and surrendered hat, overcoat, and umbrella, his eyes darted to the text engraved in the marble floor of the foyer: Mundus Quoque Non Opus Est Scire, et Non Erit. The World Does Not Need to Know, and It Doesn't. He experienced the infrequent-for him-longing that there could be, sometimes, things he didn’t need to know. But such was not his lot, this lifetime.
The attendant ushered him through double oak doors into a large room where several individuals were clustered near a fireplace at the far end. He put aside his unproductive musings, straightened his shoulders, and strode toward them as one to the manner born (as, indeed, he was).
This drew the eyes of the others in the room. It took more than a moment for him to register, react, and hide his surprise at one of the faces turned towards him. Which face sharpened, softened, and evinced the smallest of smiles. Ignoring protocol, practice, and procedure, the individual in question broke from the pack and stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Hello, cousin.”
An infinitesimal ripple of surprise stirred the onlookers, a kind of alertness like a herd of gazelle hearing the click of a crocodile’s teeth. Mycroft slowed his stride, forcing the other to stand with his hand outstretched for a breath longer than might be considered comfortable.
“A distant connection, but a valued one,” Mycroft said smoothly as their hands met, pitching his voice to the gallery. “Quite marvelous to see you, Sean, it’s been years.” As they shook hands and reached across to clasp upper arms as befitting the closer relationship, they angled slightly so they were visible in profile to the onlookers, bringing into sharp relief the physical resemblance that might have otherwise gone unremarked.
“Hey, now!” exclaimed a brash voice in American tones. “That’s like a disturbance in The Force! You didn’t tell me we were meeting your cousin, Captain!” All eyes turned toward the voice and resultant laughter, which was equally brash and still unmistakably American. No doubt the looks were mostly disapproving, except for Mycroft’s calmly-raised eyebrows and the man Sean’s crinkled smile. Breaking the handshake, Sean gestured toward the short Asian man, who was standing with the air of ex-military and one unaccustomed to wearing a business suit. “My associate, Sergeant Drew Wu, and this, Sergeant, is my distant cousin, Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft, aware that they were careening off the path of centuries of established protocol, stepped forward to shake the hand of likely the lowest-ranking person in the room, while sliding a minutely-admonitory glare at the others. “A pleasure, Sergeant,” he said smoothly, “I’m well-aware of the esteem in which my cousin holds his team.” At the same time, he wondered that Renard would have chosen a member of the Portland Police to accompany him on this particular junket; surely the man was not out of the wesen closet at the workplace.
Still, that was a minor wrinkle; the sheer fact of Renard’s presence laid bare the extent and nature of the crisis before them. Victims half-drained of their blood, vampire-slayers, his brother, wesen, Watchers, Californians, American policemen, and the British Government. All that was needed was a werewolf and a dominatrix to make it a full boat.
Stifling a sigh, he looked around at the power-players in the room still frozen in place, moved toward what was clearly the key seat, and prepared to begin the strategy session.
At the Crime Scene
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock BBC
Words: 680
Rating: G, Gen
Background: Rupert Giles and the Scoobies have escaped the destruction of Sunnydale, and, after an arduous journey to England, have left the Potentials at the Watchers’ Council headquarters outside London and set themselves down in The City. Giles connects with his childhood friend Detective Inspector Lestrade, where he is swept into an investigation of a peculiar set of serial killings that has left victims, half-drained of their blood, scattered around town. Meanwhile, Buffy and the crew have followed newspaper headlines to the exact crime scene where Giles, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John have just arrived.
Sherlock strode forward toward the caution tape fluttering around the wrought iron gate of the Campden Hill Lawn Tennis Club, trailed by John, still complaining about the cost of the cab. He nodded at the four young people who were staring agape at the two men getting out of the police car a ways back. “Californians, I presume,” he said crisply, as his eyes roamed over their persons. His lips moved silently as though cataloging their every detail, catching their attention torn between fascination at his demeanor and their shock at seeing Giles heading toward them, in step with an older, very handsome man with an air of authority, who-
“Oh!” Willow’s eyes widened, and she looked down at the newspaper clutched in her hand, at the blurred photograph, and back to the silver haired man pulling up in front of them, with Giles at his shoulder.
“Good, good, here we all are, then,” said Giles in a tone that sounded unusually hearty, at least to Dawn, who looked at him curiously, as Buffy had a bit of a stare-down with Sherlock and Xander gazed around with an air of mingled excitement and confusion.
“I take it this is your-ahem-school group, Rupert?” Lestrade said challengingly. “Looking to start their training early?”
Giles raised his hands placatingly. “I take no credit for them being here, or blame. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. Well, perhaps a bit.” He leveled a stare at Buffy, then Xander, who startled. “Don’t look at me, I just go where I’m told. You can bet I’m not the one who wanted to follow some blood-stained trai-uhhh, not blood, I mean, yeah, we were just out for a stroll, sight-seeing, what a coincidence, running into you, weird, but they always say, there’s no such thing as coincidences, I mean, what are the odds, that we’d see you and your, whatevers, I mean I wanted to stay at the hotel and watch telly and eat bangers, so-“
“Please, stop talking this instant,” commanded Sherlock. “There’s no need to attempt this clumsy cover-up of your intentions. It’s plain to see that we all know what is going on here-“ he waved his hand at the chorus of “What?” “We do?” and “Not ‘alf” that ensued-“so let’s just get on with it.”
“Social niceties, Sherlock,” interceded John. “Introductions, yes? I’m John Watson-“ he smiled at Buffy, Dawn, Willow, and Xander, “and this rude git is Sherlock. Rupert here you know, I take it, and we got there Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, as I believe the evidence-“ he gestured toward the newspaper folded in Willow’s hand-“has already indicated, as well as providing a clue for why the bloody hell we’re all standing around here, right.”
“Excellent deduction, John, my god, you could be a Consulting Detective with those skills. Now can we get on with it?” Sherlock whirled around, pushed the gate open, and batted aside the caution tape to head toward the courtyard just visible beyond.
“Buffy and Dawn Summers, Willow Rosenberg, and Xander Harris,” said Giles to John and Lestrade, as the young people variously nodded, waved, and grinned. Except for Buffy, who snatched the newspaper from Willow’s hand and turned to follow Sherlock. “I suppose I’ll have to explain everyone later,” murmured Giles, though it wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to the Londoners or the Americans, as the rest of them hurried after the two figures striding toward the crime scene.
Meanwhile, In Luton...
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Sherlock BBC, Grimm
Words: 785 (157 words from a previously-written fic)
Rating: G, Gen
Background: Mycroft Holmes paused with his gloved finger hovering over the keypad at the gated entry. He closed his eyes momentarily, unfamiliar doubt flooding his mind. He willed himself not to glance back toward the black car at the curb. He hadn't chosen to engage Anthea in his trust; he had no right to request her support now.
It had been many years since he had pressed those numbers (of course, he had never pressed these numbers; the code was changed weekly), many years since he had crossed this threshold. However this current flurry of serial killings, the involvement of his brother, and the surprising appearance of the man Giles made this visit inevitable. In any case, hesitation and doubt were irrational, unproductive. He pressed the requisite numbers with aplomb, and pushed the open the gate to the headquarters of the Watchers' Council.
The doors were opened by an old-school butler in tails and white gloves, which would have startled perhaps anyone except Mycroft Holmes, long inured by upbringing and profession to old-school shows of force. As he entered and surrendered hat, overcoat, and umbrella, his eyes darted to the text engraved in the marble floor of the foyer: Mundus Quoque Non Opus Est Scire, et Non Erit. The World Does Not Need to Know, and It Doesn't. He experienced the infrequent-for him-longing that there could be, sometimes, things he didn’t need to know. But such was not his lot, this lifetime.
The attendant ushered him through double oak doors into a large room where several individuals were clustered near a fireplace at the far end. He put aside his unproductive musings, straightened his shoulders, and strode toward them as one to the manner born (as, indeed, he was).
This drew the eyes of the others in the room. It took more than a moment for him to register, react, and hide his surprise at one of the faces turned towards him. Which face sharpened, softened, and evinced the smallest of smiles. Ignoring protocol, practice, and procedure, the individual in question broke from the pack and stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Hello, cousin.”
An infinitesimal ripple of surprise stirred the onlookers, a kind of alertness like a herd of gazelle hearing the click of a crocodile’s teeth. Mycroft slowed his stride, forcing the other to stand with his hand outstretched for a breath longer than might be considered comfortable.
“A distant connection, but a valued one,” Mycroft said smoothly as their hands met, pitching his voice to the gallery. “Quite marvelous to see you, Sean, it’s been years.” As they shook hands and reached across to clasp upper arms as befitting the closer relationship, they angled slightly so they were visible in profile to the onlookers, bringing into sharp relief the physical resemblance that might have otherwise gone unremarked.
“Hey, now!” exclaimed a brash voice in American tones. “That’s like a disturbance in The Force! You didn’t tell me we were meeting your cousin, Captain!” All eyes turned toward the voice and resultant laughter, which was equally brash and still unmistakably American. No doubt the looks were mostly disapproving, except for Mycroft’s calmly-raised eyebrows and the man Sean’s crinkled smile. Breaking the handshake, Sean gestured toward the short Asian man, who was standing with the air of ex-military and one unaccustomed to wearing a business suit. “My associate, Sergeant Drew Wu, and this, Sergeant, is my distant cousin, Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft, aware that they were careening off the path of centuries of established protocol, stepped forward to shake the hand of likely the lowest-ranking person in the room, while sliding a minutely-admonitory glare at the others. “A pleasure, Sergeant,” he said smoothly, “I’m well-aware of the esteem in which my cousin holds his team.” At the same time, he wondered that Renard would have chosen a member of the Portland Police to accompany him on this particular junket; surely the man was not out of the wesen closet at the workplace.
Still, that was a minor wrinkle; the sheer fact of Renard’s presence laid bare the extent and nature of the crisis before them. Victims half-drained of their blood, vampire-slayers, his brother, wesen, Watchers, Californians, American policemen, and the British Government. All that was needed was a werewolf and a dominatrix to make it a full boat.
Stifling a sigh, he looked around at the power-players in the room still frozen in place, moved toward what was clearly the key seat, and prepared to begin the strategy session.