random one-shot weirdness
I totally blame the group I play D&D with for this. Between Cthulu-themed Christmas Carols, general weirdness, and a night of random fun by Team WTF (our unofficial name for the party we play in D&D)... yeah. BBC Sherlock meets HP Lovecraft and the Cthulu mythos. In a world where the Holmes stories never existed, why would the Cthulu mythos?
The Lurking Boredom
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn," John read, probably completely butchering the pronunciation. Assuming the phrase was meant to be spoken aloud at all. "Is it code?"
"A language, I think," Sherlock answered, not looking up from the moldering book (made of what just might have been human skin) open before him. "It lacks the sort of internal consistency one expects from a code."
"It makes no sense so it must be a language?" John laughed, shaking his head and watching as Sherlock made more notes on the curious phrase that more and more prisoners and mental patients seemed to be repeating. "Welsh, do you think?"
Sherlock shook his head absently, ignoring John's next question and not speaking again for hours.
Finally, staring up at his flatmate with slightly fevered eyes, he whispered, "In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulu lies dreaming."
"What?" John asked, frowning.
"It's from that partial transcript Lestrade found of that satanic bible. The Necronomicon, I believe that cult called it."
"Um..." John blinked, searching back in his mind for that case, and going pale as he recalled the unusual and unsatisfying investigation and its lack of anything resembling closure. "All the cultists claimed that the information in this book had the power to drive men mad and split the fabric of reality asunder."
Ridiculous claims, but they'd been oddly compelling all the same. He still sometimes woke in a cold sweat from unsettling dreams of all they'd seen and experienced during the case. They'd both been having strange dreams since, them and roughly half the world's population, as far as anyone could tell. A new form of bio-terrorism, maybe.
"I think... this is that book, John," Sherlock breathed hoarsely. "Imagine what truths must be secreted here, if I could just--"
John could see him working up to one of his moods, so he held up both hands, clearing his throat. "Sherlock, let's not go trying to comprehend the ineffable or awaken horrific creatures from before the dawn of creation and from beyond time and space," he suggested, reaching for the ancient volume open before his friend, meaning to close it and tuck it safely out of sight (and therefore out of mind).
"I'm bored, Jawn!" he protested, drawling his friend's name petulantly. "Bored, and this is interesting!"
"Sherlock!" John protested in amused exasperation. "No digging up unspeakable horrors, all right?"
"Well, I'm bored! It's either translating this book, or we can play Cluedo."
John considered this, reflected on the mind-shattering nature of the arcane information supposedly contained in the ancient volume. Then he remembered the last time they'd played the board game in question.
"I'll help you translate," he announced, drawing up a chair.
Finis
or maybe just the beginning of the end ;p
The Lurking Boredom
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn," John read, probably completely butchering the pronunciation. Assuming the phrase was meant to be spoken aloud at all. "Is it code?"
"A language, I think," Sherlock answered, not looking up from the moldering book (made of what just might have been human skin) open before him. "It lacks the sort of internal consistency one expects from a code."
"It makes no sense so it must be a language?" John laughed, shaking his head and watching as Sherlock made more notes on the curious phrase that more and more prisoners and mental patients seemed to be repeating. "Welsh, do you think?"
Sherlock shook his head absently, ignoring John's next question and not speaking again for hours.
Finally, staring up at his flatmate with slightly fevered eyes, he whispered, "In his house at R'lyeh, dead Cthulu lies dreaming."
"What?" John asked, frowning.
"It's from that partial transcript Lestrade found of that satanic bible. The Necronomicon, I believe that cult called it."
"Um..." John blinked, searching back in his mind for that case, and going pale as he recalled the unusual and unsatisfying investigation and its lack of anything resembling closure. "All the cultists claimed that the information in this book had the power to drive men mad and split the fabric of reality asunder."
Ridiculous claims, but they'd been oddly compelling all the same. He still sometimes woke in a cold sweat from unsettling dreams of all they'd seen and experienced during the case. They'd both been having strange dreams since, them and roughly half the world's population, as far as anyone could tell. A new form of bio-terrorism, maybe.
"I think... this is that book, John," Sherlock breathed hoarsely. "Imagine what truths must be secreted here, if I could just--"
John could see him working up to one of his moods, so he held up both hands, clearing his throat. "Sherlock, let's not go trying to comprehend the ineffable or awaken horrific creatures from before the dawn of creation and from beyond time and space," he suggested, reaching for the ancient volume open before his friend, meaning to close it and tuck it safely out of sight (and therefore out of mind).
"I'm bored, Jawn!" he protested, drawling his friend's name petulantly. "Bored, and this is interesting!"
"Sherlock!" John protested in amused exasperation. "No digging up unspeakable horrors, all right?"
"Well, I'm bored! It's either translating this book, or we can play Cluedo."
John considered this, reflected on the mind-shattering nature of the arcane information supposedly contained in the ancient volume. Then he remembered the last time they'd played the board game in question.
"I'll help you translate," he announced, drawing up a chair.
Finis
or maybe just the beginning of the end ;p