Who did you kill (1/4)
Sherlock crossover with the Noppera Bou arc of the anime Mononoke. Not beta'ed.
Author's Note:
I strongly recommend to read my previous work in this 'verse, "What you fear the most", first. The mythology behind this world is explained there more in detail. For those who won't, I'll summarize shortly: Sherlock is a demon hunter (and a detective, of course) who hunts demons associated with strong human emotions (and thus often responsible for crimes). His own nature is somewhat of a mystery - definitely not human. The closest he could be describe is a fox demon. He has pointed ears and canines, carries a special sword that can be unsheathed only when the Demon's true nature is known, and otherwise is just the good old sociopath as we know him.
For better visuals - the Sword of Exorcism released
Part one
.
.
.
Captain John H. Watson, MD, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was murdered.
The culprit was the victim’s newlywed wife, Mary. For her crime, she was incarcerated immediately.
The words felt like a fiction despite the bland reality of the police report file paper they were printed on. Sherlock ran his fingers along the signature at the very end of the statements page: perfectly neat and legible, hand still unused to the new surname but sure in its delivery; the pen didn’t shake.
I accept responsibility for my crime, she had said and signed the statement. They haven’t heard another word from her since.
Lestrade kept shaking his head as they passed through the NSY corridors.
“There’s nothing to do, Sherlock. The case is solved. She confessed, for God’s sake.”
“One visit. That’s all I ask.” Then he cast a sidelong glance at the grey-haired policeman and allowed sincerity to show up on his face: “And I won’t harm her, in case you’re worried.”
“Jesus, Sherlock.” Lestrade wasn’t sure if allowing Sherlock one session in the interrogation room with the woman guilty of murder of John Watson was the worst idea - or the best. “For my part, I wouldn’t be overly cross with you if you did. But...” he waved his hand all around them, words becoming superfluous.
The door closed behind him with a sharp metallic click of the lock. The blonde woman seated at the table did not raise her eyes. Sherlock took a seat opposite her and for a very long while, he just stared.
“Just what did you do?” he asked after minutes of silence.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she countered. “I haven’t asked for you. I wouldn’t, even. Your deductions won’t be of any help here.” She emphasized the word with bitterness.
Sherlock put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers under his chin. “In contrast with what I usually say, personally, the belief that the facts and clues alone can lead to solution of a crime does not sit well with me. Without seeing and understanding the person behind the crime, the real solution is unattainable.”
Mary looked - tired. Exhausted to the point of breaking. “But you already know what happened. Leave me alone.”
“Oh, everybody seems to know what happened.” Sherlock smiled, his fake smile that shoved just the tips of his canine teeth. “From the Chief Superintendent down to the last Constable, they all think they know what happened. Mary Watson, the devil who killed her husband and the father of her unborn child, only a month after their wedding.”
He continued, his voice devoid of any horror or compassion, instead laced with something dangerously close to sick delight: “Such a heinous crime. Shooting him in his sleep.”
Mary blinked several times and frowned: “That’s not what happened.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” Sherlock retorted, unfazed. “Oh yes, you’ve poisoned him, of course. Something in his tea. What a cruel irony of fate.”
“That’s wrong, as well.” Mary evaded his eyes, and there was a hint of distress in her voice.
Sherlock measured his words like the contents of his potions: “Then how did it happen?”
Mary drew in a deep breath and then she flinched as if she heard a sharp sound. Sherlock watched her, his fox-like eyes alight.
“Is something the matter?”
“Oh. Nothing.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve... I’ve forgotten.”
Sherlock’s smile grew broader. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I happen to think you didn’t do it - not without aid. There were no witnesses and no evidence, just your own admission of guilt. I do not believe you acted alone.”
He leaned forward: “I think that it was the work of a demon.”
“Demon?” she laughed disbelievingly.
“You’re sure you’re not acquainted with them? What about your past? I believe you carry an awful lot of them, in fact.”
“That’s nonsense.” Her mouth was a thin, firm line. “I did it for reasons that are my own and none of your business. I’ll pay for it and that’s the end of it.” She looked towards the mirror glass on the far wall, as if she wanted to plead with the unseen officer behind it to come and send Sherlock away.
“Oh no, Mary. You know, people always have a certain air about them. You don’t strike me as a woman ready to go to prison tomorrow.”
If there was anyone overseeing them through the one-way mirror, they didn’t react. She looked at Sherlock defiantly. “And yet, that’s exactly what will happen. Why is it of any bother to you?”
Through the corridors, from behind the locked door, faint sounds reached them. Sounds of commotion somewhere in the upper stories, voices raised in alarm. Mary cocked her hear to listen. Sherlock paid it no heed.
“You know... you seem different. To the normal Mary.”
She laughed again, momentarily distracted: “You have no idea about how I act under normal circumstances. You have no idea who I really am, do you? All you’ve ever seen of me was an act.”
Liar, Sherlock remembered his deduction from the night they met for the first time. One deduction that rendered all the others empty.
Thin wisp of smoke crept trough the crack under the door of the interrogation room. Mary noticed it and her eyes widened.
“But you can trust me. I can help.” Sherlock insisted.
Mary’s answer was intercepted by a sound of something heavy falling to the ground outside their door. Then, a voice called out, strangely muffled.
“Where are you? Get out of there!”
Sherlock spun around, pointed ears quivering. “Impossible,” he murmured. He quickly turned to Mary: “Whatever happens, stay. Don’t leave. You mustn’t leave.”
Mary rose from her chair. “You gone crazy? If there’s fire, we must leave! Somebody is coming for us already...”
Sherlock pinned her down to the chair, not minding her struggling. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Why are you getting in my way? This is madness! We’re gonna die-”
“You are safe as long as you stay in here,” Sherlock hissed. The lock to the interrogation room cracked open.
Sherlock jumped to it, fingers curling around the sheath of that strange little sword of his. A figure of a man with a gas mask on his face stood in the door. The corridor was full of suffocating smoke.
“My, my.” The intruder closed the door just as Mary started to feel tears prickle in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve come for you. You’re not one to rot in prison.”
Mary, as if she was under a spell, took few steps towards the intruder.
“So I was right,” Sherlock gritted through his teeth, “she had an accomplice. She was possessed. Though I must admit, you revealed your Form earlier than I thought.”
“Oh, you think so?” The man pulled off his mask. “Well, witness my Form.”
It was Moriarty, eyes dancing with that insane spark that’s always been there, with far to many teeth in his grin. The sword in Sherlock’s hand rattled its teeth in vain. Sherlock looked at it with genuine surprise.
“This is not your true Form. Moriarty’s dead. He blew his brains out. He’s dead.”
“There is something about being dead, Sherlock,” Moriarty mused, “oh, look to whom I’m talking. But you’re gonna love it this time. No one ever bothers you.”
Moriarty tossed a gun at Mary. She caught it with a practiced ease, checked it, flipped the safety off and aimed at Sherlock.
“Get out of my way.” Her voice was small but there was an edge to it which spoke less of pleading and more of a threat.
“Don’t leave, Mary.” Sherlock repeated. “If you believe this place holds you, it is a prison. If you don’t wish to leave, it will become a fortress. Let me help.”
Her voice was frail but her posture was not. “Sherlock, I swear... you can’t help me. One more step and I will kill you.”
“Do you really want to run away - forever?” From the wince on her face he could tell her resolve was wavering. She reminded him of a cornered animal, ready to bite.
“Sherlock, darling.” Moriarty drawled. “You heard what she said. Infinite providence lies with me, you see? I can take care of her.”
Sherlock took one step forward.
Mary pulled the trigger.
Dark red rose bud bloomed on the front of Sherlock’s crisp white shirt. When he looked back at her, somehow it felt as if a mask fell off his face, the one he used to wear in the company of humans. She used to read him as a book but suddenly she couldn’t read a single trace in his features.
As Sherlock fell to the ground, the mocking voice of Moriarty flowed through the clouds of smoke: “Wander now, in search of you precious Form.”
***
The next thing Mary registered, the first thing that truly came to her through the fog of smoke and confusion, was that they were in a sheltered place somewhere, resting.
“We should be safe for now.”
She allowed herself to relax minutely and then, for the first time since their escape, looked her abductor squarely in the eyes.
“So....” she began, “.... you.” She didn’t really know where to begin. Moriarty sighed.
“All those ridiculous rumours. But well, if it helps, think that I am a demon.”
She looked at him sharply. “You’re not.”
He grinned. “Then I’m not. Does it matter? You’re free. We’re alive. Bridges burned.”
She clenched her hands and then she touched her face, rubbing her fingers along her jawline. When she looks at her fingertips, she was almost surprised that they were clean, as if she expected to find dried blood under her fingernails.
“The past is not a problem any more,” Moriarty assured her.
The problems of your past are your business, John would have said to her. Oh, if only he knew how her problems would catch up with her, and how soon.
It’s all I need to know, he would have said when he would decide never to want to know. So forgiving. So accepting. So good.
Too good for his own good.
.
.
.
to Part 2
Author's Note:
I strongly recommend to read my previous work in this 'verse, "What you fear the most", first. The mythology behind this world is explained there more in detail. For those who won't, I'll summarize shortly: Sherlock is a demon hunter (and a detective, of course) who hunts demons associated with strong human emotions (and thus often responsible for crimes). His own nature is somewhat of a mystery - definitely not human. The closest he could be describe is a fox demon. He has pointed ears and canines, carries a special sword that can be unsheathed only when the Demon's true nature is known, and otherwise is just the good old sociopath as we know him.
For better visuals - the Sword of Exorcism released
Part one
.
.
.
Captain John H. Watson, MD, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was murdered.
The culprit was the victim’s newlywed wife, Mary. For her crime, she was incarcerated immediately.
The words felt like a fiction despite the bland reality of the police report file paper they were printed on. Sherlock ran his fingers along the signature at the very end of the statements page: perfectly neat and legible, hand still unused to the new surname but sure in its delivery; the pen didn’t shake.
I accept responsibility for my crime, she had said and signed the statement. They haven’t heard another word from her since.
Lestrade kept shaking his head as they passed through the NSY corridors.
“There’s nothing to do, Sherlock. The case is solved. She confessed, for God’s sake.”
“One visit. That’s all I ask.” Then he cast a sidelong glance at the grey-haired policeman and allowed sincerity to show up on his face: “And I won’t harm her, in case you’re worried.”
“Jesus, Sherlock.” Lestrade wasn’t sure if allowing Sherlock one session in the interrogation room with the woman guilty of murder of John Watson was the worst idea - or the best. “For my part, I wouldn’t be overly cross with you if you did. But...” he waved his hand all around them, words becoming superfluous.
The door closed behind him with a sharp metallic click of the lock. The blonde woman seated at the table did not raise her eyes. Sherlock took a seat opposite her and for a very long while, he just stared.
“Just what did you do?” he asked after minutes of silence.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” she countered. “I haven’t asked for you. I wouldn’t, even. Your deductions won’t be of any help here.” She emphasized the word with bitterness.
Sherlock put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers under his chin. “In contrast with what I usually say, personally, the belief that the facts and clues alone can lead to solution of a crime does not sit well with me. Without seeing and understanding the person behind the crime, the real solution is unattainable.”
Mary looked - tired. Exhausted to the point of breaking. “But you already know what happened. Leave me alone.”
“Oh, everybody seems to know what happened.” Sherlock smiled, his fake smile that shoved just the tips of his canine teeth. “From the Chief Superintendent down to the last Constable, they all think they know what happened. Mary Watson, the devil who killed her husband and the father of her unborn child, only a month after their wedding.”
He continued, his voice devoid of any horror or compassion, instead laced with something dangerously close to sick delight: “Such a heinous crime. Shooting him in his sleep.”
Mary blinked several times and frowned: “That’s not what happened.”
“Oh, it isn’t?” Sherlock retorted, unfazed. “Oh yes, you’ve poisoned him, of course. Something in his tea. What a cruel irony of fate.”
“That’s wrong, as well.” Mary evaded his eyes, and there was a hint of distress in her voice.
Sherlock measured his words like the contents of his potions: “Then how did it happen?”
Mary drew in a deep breath and then she flinched as if she heard a sharp sound. Sherlock watched her, his fox-like eyes alight.
“Is something the matter?”
“Oh. Nothing.” She rubbed her hands together. “I’ve... I’ve forgotten.”
Sherlock’s smile grew broader. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I happen to think you didn’t do it - not without aid. There were no witnesses and no evidence, just your own admission of guilt. I do not believe you acted alone.”
He leaned forward: “I think that it was the work of a demon.”
“Demon?” she laughed disbelievingly.
“You’re sure you’re not acquainted with them? What about your past? I believe you carry an awful lot of them, in fact.”
“That’s nonsense.” Her mouth was a thin, firm line. “I did it for reasons that are my own and none of your business. I’ll pay for it and that’s the end of it.” She looked towards the mirror glass on the far wall, as if she wanted to plead with the unseen officer behind it to come and send Sherlock away.
“Oh no, Mary. You know, people always have a certain air about them. You don’t strike me as a woman ready to go to prison tomorrow.”
If there was anyone overseeing them through the one-way mirror, they didn’t react. She looked at Sherlock defiantly. “And yet, that’s exactly what will happen. Why is it of any bother to you?”
Through the corridors, from behind the locked door, faint sounds reached them. Sounds of commotion somewhere in the upper stories, voices raised in alarm. Mary cocked her hear to listen. Sherlock paid it no heed.
“You know... you seem different. To the normal Mary.”
She laughed again, momentarily distracted: “You have no idea about how I act under normal circumstances. You have no idea who I really am, do you? All you’ve ever seen of me was an act.”
Liar, Sherlock remembered his deduction from the night they met for the first time. One deduction that rendered all the others empty.
Thin wisp of smoke crept trough the crack under the door of the interrogation room. Mary noticed it and her eyes widened.
“But you can trust me. I can help.” Sherlock insisted.
Mary’s answer was intercepted by a sound of something heavy falling to the ground outside their door. Then, a voice called out, strangely muffled.
“Where are you? Get out of there!”
Sherlock spun around, pointed ears quivering. “Impossible,” he murmured. He quickly turned to Mary: “Whatever happens, stay. Don’t leave. You mustn’t leave.”
Mary rose from her chair. “You gone crazy? If there’s fire, we must leave! Somebody is coming for us already...”
Sherlock pinned her down to the chair, not minding her struggling. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Why are you getting in my way? This is madness! We’re gonna die-”
“You are safe as long as you stay in here,” Sherlock hissed. The lock to the interrogation room cracked open.
Sherlock jumped to it, fingers curling around the sheath of that strange little sword of his. A figure of a man with a gas mask on his face stood in the door. The corridor was full of suffocating smoke.
“My, my.” The intruder closed the door just as Mary started to feel tears prickle in her eyes.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve come for you. You’re not one to rot in prison.”
Mary, as if she was under a spell, took few steps towards the intruder.
“So I was right,” Sherlock gritted through his teeth, “she had an accomplice. She was possessed. Though I must admit, you revealed your Form earlier than I thought.”
“Oh, you think so?” The man pulled off his mask. “Well, witness my Form.”
It was Moriarty, eyes dancing with that insane spark that’s always been there, with far to many teeth in his grin. The sword in Sherlock’s hand rattled its teeth in vain. Sherlock looked at it with genuine surprise.
“This is not your true Form. Moriarty’s dead. He blew his brains out. He’s dead.”
“There is something about being dead, Sherlock,” Moriarty mused, “oh, look to whom I’m talking. But you’re gonna love it this time. No one ever bothers you.”
Moriarty tossed a gun at Mary. She caught it with a practiced ease, checked it, flipped the safety off and aimed at Sherlock.
“Get out of my way.” Her voice was small but there was an edge to it which spoke less of pleading and more of a threat.
“Don’t leave, Mary.” Sherlock repeated. “If you believe this place holds you, it is a prison. If you don’t wish to leave, it will become a fortress. Let me help.”
Her voice was frail but her posture was not. “Sherlock, I swear... you can’t help me. One more step and I will kill you.”
“Do you really want to run away - forever?” From the wince on her face he could tell her resolve was wavering. She reminded him of a cornered animal, ready to bite.
“Sherlock, darling.” Moriarty drawled. “You heard what she said. Infinite providence lies with me, you see? I can take care of her.”
Sherlock took one step forward.
Mary pulled the trigger.
Dark red rose bud bloomed on the front of Sherlock’s crisp white shirt. When he looked back at her, somehow it felt as if a mask fell off his face, the one he used to wear in the company of humans. She used to read him as a book but suddenly she couldn’t read a single trace in his features.
As Sherlock fell to the ground, the mocking voice of Moriarty flowed through the clouds of smoke: “Wander now, in search of you precious Form.”
***
The next thing Mary registered, the first thing that truly came to her through the fog of smoke and confusion, was that they were in a sheltered place somewhere, resting.
“We should be safe for now.”
She allowed herself to relax minutely and then, for the first time since their escape, looked her abductor squarely in the eyes.
“So....” she began, “.... you.” She didn’t really know where to begin. Moriarty sighed.
“All those ridiculous rumours. But well, if it helps, think that I am a demon.”
She looked at him sharply. “You’re not.”
He grinned. “Then I’m not. Does it matter? You’re free. We’re alive. Bridges burned.”
She clenched her hands and then she touched her face, rubbing her fingers along her jawline. When she looks at her fingertips, she was almost surprised that they were clean, as if she expected to find dried blood under her fingernails.
“The past is not a problem any more,” Moriarty assured her.
The problems of your past are your business, John would have said to her. Oh, if only he knew how her problems would catch up with her, and how soon.
It’s all I need to know, he would have said when he would decide never to want to know. So forgiving. So accepting. So good.
Too good for his own good.
.
.
.
to Part 2