Fic: chronicle of a work in progress
What this is, is really more like a concept pitch for a story than an actual story. The premise has got me by the brainstem, but I'm not actually sure how it wants to be executed. Hence this being mainly staging and dialogue, at this point.
So what I'm going to do, is throw out some of the tinkering. Maybe it will change form? Maybe it will just keep going along these lines? The limited omniscient thing is sorta giving me fits, but I'm also sorta too interested in the plot to care at the moment.
What would be neat, is to see if it evolves. AND Y'KNOW if somebody wanted to jump in and tinker along (ophelietta), maybe locate the atmosphere and whatever else is hiding from me (dude this is totally your idea too), this thing really is wide open.
Oh, and what is it? A xxxHolic Rou AU. Himawari, Doumeki, and Currently Absent Watanuki, in a Sherlock Holmesian setting (circa 1886 or thereabouts. I have so many research bookmarks, what do you want to know). Himawari and Doumeki are both Watsons. And this initial episode puts them on the trail of a murder mystery.
That's about it. How 'bout some sketchy fic now. (Title quoted from A Scandal In Bohemia)
Title: "Grit in a sensitive instrument"
xxxHolic (Sherlock Holmes AU)
Captain Doumeki Shizuka & Miss Kunogi Himawari
Reader Discretion Advised (It's a murder mystery and Himawari is basically a medical examiner. Possibly an M.D., that's as yet undecided. Anyway, there will be icky details.)
1.
They were finishing breakfast in the conservatory, Miss Kunogi and Captain Doumeki, and reviewing their respective correspondence for the morning. Miss Kunogi was skimming a recent publication involving one Professor Lippman and his research in photographic emulsions. Captain Doumeki was finishing his third helping of crepes, and frowning intently between two pieces of correspondence: a telegram, and a thick piece of folded card stock.
Miss Kunogi studied her companion's expression in a succession of brief, discreet glances over the top of her paper. After a protracted silence with no change forthcoming, she set aside her own reading material and asked.
"Something interesting?"
As was typical with Captain Doumeki, the answer was not immediate. The crease between his brows sharpened briefly, and a certain tightening about his right eye suggested he was weighing some decision.
And then he shook his head, a gesture so characteristically spare it would hardly have registered with those unacquainted with him.
"I will never understand how he knows these things." With those words, handing the telegram to Miss Kunogi, who hesitated a mere instant before touching her fingers to the paper.
"Watanuki?" The name was a mere breath, answered in the affirmative by a particular stillness on Captain Doumeki's part. Neither question nor answer were necessary, for all that the name went so seldom mentioned between them.
Miss Kunogi took the telegram, and read it carefully aloud. "Eliza Garrett, Brixton's maid in photograph, stop. Death suspicious, Brixton not murderer, full stop."
At her inquiring upward glance, Captain Doumeki handed over the second item: a small photographic portrait, enclosed in a trifold envelope of thick card stock. "Miss Garrett, presumably," offered the Captain.
"He sent this as well?" she asked.
"Must have arranged it somehow. I knew he and Professor Brixton maintained correspondence. But the maid died night before last. The police were investigating yesterday morning."
Miss Kunogi inspected the photograph; a young woman, seated stiffly in a high-backed chair, caught in an angled wash of sun from a nearby dormer skylight. She was not attired as a maid, but modestly, in a starched light blouse and dark skirt in plain style. Her only adornment was a necklace chain bearing a small metal pendant; a single charm, such as might be collected on a lady's bracelet. The charm was too small to properly identify, but its shape resembled a hand mirror, or tennis racquet, perhaps.
"She was pretty," Miss Kunogi quietly remarked. "What was the cause of death?"
"Her skull was crushed. Ribs and spine fractured. The coroner stated the injuries were consistent with a fall from a great height. At least thirty feet. The body was found on the floor of the staircase hall, of Professor Brixton's townhouse."
"When was this portrait taken?"
"Last week. There's a date on the back of the print."
"I don't imagine suicide," murmured Miss Kunogi. And then, "Thirty feet?"
"Collapse of the zygomatic arch into the orbital cavity," replied Captain Doumeki. "You're ruling out suicide?"
"It seems unlikely." Miss Kunogi studied the photograph again, the artful composition of the light gracing the young woman's hair, and gently framing a cheekbone. There was a softness to her expression, at odds with her carefully frozen posture, and the necklace charm hung prominently on her shirtfront, her only ornament.
"She knew someone cared about her. Anyway, he--the telegram states it was murder." Miss Kunogi covered her momentary slip with a glance flicked to the corner of the telegram, resting at her elbow upon the table.
Captain Doumeki observed the look, and then dabbed his napkin to his mouth, as he appeared to reach a decision.
"So. Your drawing kit? Teatime?"
Miss Kunogi agreed to the plan with a tiny nod. "Riding boots, do you think?"
"Can't imagine it would be necessary."
"Pity." Miss Kunogi turned a faintly disappointed look in the direction of her high-heeled toe-pinching shoes, and Captain Doumeki permitted the merest suggestion of a smile to surface, an expression somewhere between indulgence and sympathy.
"I shall arrange the carriage for three o'clock, then," he said, and rose from the table, offering his companion a brief bow before retiring.
**
In the carriage on the way to Professor Brixton's townhouse, Captain Doumeki described what he knew of the man. A lifelong bachelor approaching late middle age, Brixton had retired from academic life to pursue private research in the fields of optics and sensitometry; measuring the light-sensitivity of photographic emulsions. For much of his life, he had pursued photography as a hobby, and of late funded much of his research by means of the portrait studio run from his home.
"And what of his household?" asked Miss Kunogi. "Has he any relatives, or dependents?"
None that Captain Doumeki knew of. So far as he understood, the Professor lived alone, employing a small house staff consisting of a cook, the now-deceased housemaid, a valet, and lately a sort of secretary and household overseer by the name of Mrs. Tringham, a widow and former boarding-house mistress.
"None of them witnessed the incident?"
"Not according to testimony. The police are still tracking down alibis, but the lead detective seems to be leaning toward accidental death. The body showed no injuries consistent with a struggle. And thus far no-one has turned up any motive."
Miss Kunogi gazed out the carriage window, gloved hands resting on the drawing portfolio in her lap, right over left. When she next spoke, it was very quietly, as if to herself. "And yet he tells us murder. Perplexing." Turning her pensive gaze down to her gloves, she then added, "I don't expect...."
Captain Doumeki caught the unspoken thought straightaway. "Sorry. Miss Garrett's been sent on to her family, for burial in Edenbridge."
Miss Kunogi lifted her gaze directly to him, at that. "You seem marvelously well-informed of the circumstances, already."
"The telegram arrived late yesterday evening, actually. You had retired to your rooms, so I took the liberty of going out, to learn what I could."
"You met one of the police officers at the pub," Miss Kunogi guessed, with a small playful smile. "I suppose you bought him drinks and let him win at darts?"
"I met two of the officers. One of whom was supply sergeant for my training regiment. Stamford."
"You didn't show him the telegram?"
"I mentioned I was hoping to satisfy an inquiry, from a friend of the Professor's. Brixton was seen at his club all evening, arriving home shortly after the police, in fact. Stamford saw no harm in reassuring the man's friends."
"So who discovered the body?" asked Miss Kunogi.
"Mrs. Tringham, around eight o'clock. She sent the valet to fetch the police."
"And the cook?"
"Asleep belowstairs."
"Interesting."
"Hm," agreed Captain Doumeki.
**
So what I'm going to do, is throw out some of the tinkering. Maybe it will change form? Maybe it will just keep going along these lines? The limited omniscient thing is sorta giving me fits, but I'm also sorta too interested in the plot to care at the moment.
What would be neat, is to see if it evolves. AND Y'KNOW if somebody wanted to jump in and tinker along (ophelietta), maybe locate the atmosphere and whatever else is hiding from me (dude this is totally your idea too), this thing really is wide open.
Oh, and what is it? A xxxHolic Rou AU. Himawari, Doumeki, and Currently Absent Watanuki, in a Sherlock Holmesian setting (circa 1886 or thereabouts. I have so many research bookmarks, what do you want to know). Himawari and Doumeki are both Watsons. And this initial episode puts them on the trail of a murder mystery.
That's about it. How 'bout some sketchy fic now. (Title quoted from A Scandal In Bohemia)
Title: "Grit in a sensitive instrument"
xxxHolic (Sherlock Holmes AU)
Captain Doumeki Shizuka & Miss Kunogi Himawari
Reader Discretion Advised (It's a murder mystery and Himawari is basically a medical examiner. Possibly an M.D., that's as yet undecided. Anyway, there will be icky details.)
1.
They were finishing breakfast in the conservatory, Miss Kunogi and Captain Doumeki, and reviewing their respective correspondence for the morning. Miss Kunogi was skimming a recent publication involving one Professor Lippman and his research in photographic emulsions. Captain Doumeki was finishing his third helping of crepes, and frowning intently between two pieces of correspondence: a telegram, and a thick piece of folded card stock.
Miss Kunogi studied her companion's expression in a succession of brief, discreet glances over the top of her paper. After a protracted silence with no change forthcoming, she set aside her own reading material and asked.
"Something interesting?"
As was typical with Captain Doumeki, the answer was not immediate. The crease between his brows sharpened briefly, and a certain tightening about his right eye suggested he was weighing some decision.
And then he shook his head, a gesture so characteristically spare it would hardly have registered with those unacquainted with him.
"I will never understand how he knows these things." With those words, handing the telegram to Miss Kunogi, who hesitated a mere instant before touching her fingers to the paper.
"Watanuki?" The name was a mere breath, answered in the affirmative by a particular stillness on Captain Doumeki's part. Neither question nor answer were necessary, for all that the name went so seldom mentioned between them.
Miss Kunogi took the telegram, and read it carefully aloud. "Eliza Garrett, Brixton's maid in photograph, stop. Death suspicious, Brixton not murderer, full stop."
At her inquiring upward glance, Captain Doumeki handed over the second item: a small photographic portrait, enclosed in a trifold envelope of thick card stock. "Miss Garrett, presumably," offered the Captain.
"He sent this as well?" she asked.
"Must have arranged it somehow. I knew he and Professor Brixton maintained correspondence. But the maid died night before last. The police were investigating yesterday morning."
Miss Kunogi inspected the photograph; a young woman, seated stiffly in a high-backed chair, caught in an angled wash of sun from a nearby dormer skylight. She was not attired as a maid, but modestly, in a starched light blouse and dark skirt in plain style. Her only adornment was a necklace chain bearing a small metal pendant; a single charm, such as might be collected on a lady's bracelet. The charm was too small to properly identify, but its shape resembled a hand mirror, or tennis racquet, perhaps.
"She was pretty," Miss Kunogi quietly remarked. "What was the cause of death?"
"Her skull was crushed. Ribs and spine fractured. The coroner stated the injuries were consistent with a fall from a great height. At least thirty feet. The body was found on the floor of the staircase hall, of Professor Brixton's townhouse."
"When was this portrait taken?"
"Last week. There's a date on the back of the print."
"I don't imagine suicide," murmured Miss Kunogi. And then, "Thirty feet?"
"Collapse of the zygomatic arch into the orbital cavity," replied Captain Doumeki. "You're ruling out suicide?"
"It seems unlikely." Miss Kunogi studied the photograph again, the artful composition of the light gracing the young woman's hair, and gently framing a cheekbone. There was a softness to her expression, at odds with her carefully frozen posture, and the necklace charm hung prominently on her shirtfront, her only ornament.
"She knew someone cared about her. Anyway, he--the telegram states it was murder." Miss Kunogi covered her momentary slip with a glance flicked to the corner of the telegram, resting at her elbow upon the table.
Captain Doumeki observed the look, and then dabbed his napkin to his mouth, as he appeared to reach a decision.
"So. Your drawing kit? Teatime?"
Miss Kunogi agreed to the plan with a tiny nod. "Riding boots, do you think?"
"Can't imagine it would be necessary."
"Pity." Miss Kunogi turned a faintly disappointed look in the direction of her high-heeled toe-pinching shoes, and Captain Doumeki permitted the merest suggestion of a smile to surface, an expression somewhere between indulgence and sympathy.
"I shall arrange the carriage for three o'clock, then," he said, and rose from the table, offering his companion a brief bow before retiring.
**
In the carriage on the way to Professor Brixton's townhouse, Captain Doumeki described what he knew of the man. A lifelong bachelor approaching late middle age, Brixton had retired from academic life to pursue private research in the fields of optics and sensitometry; measuring the light-sensitivity of photographic emulsions. For much of his life, he had pursued photography as a hobby, and of late funded much of his research by means of the portrait studio run from his home.
"And what of his household?" asked Miss Kunogi. "Has he any relatives, or dependents?"
None that Captain Doumeki knew of. So far as he understood, the Professor lived alone, employing a small house staff consisting of a cook, the now-deceased housemaid, a valet, and lately a sort of secretary and household overseer by the name of Mrs. Tringham, a widow and former boarding-house mistress.
"None of them witnessed the incident?"
"Not according to testimony. The police are still tracking down alibis, but the lead detective seems to be leaning toward accidental death. The body showed no injuries consistent with a struggle. And thus far no-one has turned up any motive."
Miss Kunogi gazed out the carriage window, gloved hands resting on the drawing portfolio in her lap, right over left. When she next spoke, it was very quietly, as if to herself. "And yet he tells us murder. Perplexing." Turning her pensive gaze down to her gloves, she then added, "I don't expect...."
Captain Doumeki caught the unspoken thought straightaway. "Sorry. Miss Garrett's been sent on to her family, for burial in Edenbridge."
Miss Kunogi lifted her gaze directly to him, at that. "You seem marvelously well-informed of the circumstances, already."
"The telegram arrived late yesterday evening, actually. You had retired to your rooms, so I took the liberty of going out, to learn what I could."
"You met one of the police officers at the pub," Miss Kunogi guessed, with a small playful smile. "I suppose you bought him drinks and let him win at darts?"
"I met two of the officers. One of whom was supply sergeant for my training regiment. Stamford."
"You didn't show him the telegram?"
"I mentioned I was hoping to satisfy an inquiry, from a friend of the Professor's. Brixton was seen at his club all evening, arriving home shortly after the police, in fact. Stamford saw no harm in reassuring the man's friends."
"So who discovered the body?" asked Miss Kunogi.
"Mrs. Tringham, around eight o'clock. She sent the valet to fetch the police."
"And the cook?"
"Asleep belowstairs."
"Interesting."
"Hm," agreed Captain Doumeki.
**