I do not fucking know what this is!
It's something I wrote, and it may or may not be brilliant. I want to know what you lot think:
Title: Death Dealing
Fandom(s): Sherlock, Discworld
Characters: Sherlock Cast, Death, The Librarian, some OCs
Slashy: Yes. Oh God yes.
Summary: Um...it's a crossover between Sherlock and Discworld, set 150 years after the latest DW book, which at the moment is Snuff. That lets me cheat and make things all modern-y so Sherlock can keep his phone, and Ankh-Morpork can have its own Civil Army. Also, gonnes are the primary weapon now, and no longer nead italics. Because John Watson don't shoot no damn crossbows. I will keep the swords, though, because the thought of John Fucking Watson swinging a sword with the ease and dexterity of long use? It does things to me.
Keep in mind that ANY of this is subject to change because you are LITERALLY getting the first, roughest, most basic draft. This is usually stuff only piplover gets to see, but she's been naughty and not read Discworld yet, so I need you guys to help me.
So...yeah. Enjoy. Or...not. Whatever the case may be.
Heat. It began with heat. With the sun blazing and the sands baking and pellets of lead flying much faster than small, heavy things should be permitted to fly. Several of them collided with the bodies of living things, of trolls and dwarfs and goblins and humans and even a few vampires who were too pig-headed to burn in the daylight.
And in this sweltering heat, surrounded by bodies both vertical and horizontal, a man who was only young behind his back and from a safe distance had blood on his hands. He was in the process of trying desperately to stuff as much of it as he could back into the rapidly cooling body of a young dwarf.
The dwarf shuddered and blinked, his eyes cloudy and unfocussed, and the chronologically young man could only think that the dwarf's eyelashes were remarkably long and thick, laid out the way they were across the dwarf's lightly freckled cheeks.
More lead pellets zipped through the air, several of them much too close for comfort.
'Flint!' The young man shouted.
A very dark, very glossy troll lumbered around to face him.
'Cover!'
The troll nodded and hunkered down around the young man and the dying dwarf, absorbing several lead pellets which would have been, at the very least, incredibly painful to fleshier beings. To Flint, however, they were about as debilitating as mosquito bites.
That's right. Thought the young-ish man. Keep it simple. Just keep him in place till nightfall, then he can get us the hells out of here.
'Ouch.' Said the troll, absentmindedly.
'Stay.' The man replied, working furiously to put the dwarf back in one piece. 'Cover.'
The troll nodded again, and the young man prayed to any passing god for the sun to set. Flint was little more than a rocky outcropping in heat like this.
But the gods must have been busy with all the other praying soldiers, because it was at that moment an enterprising opponent got it in his, or possibly her, or possibly its, head to shoot from a different direction.
The sound was no different to that of any other gonne being fired. The young-but-not-really man didn't even notice it amidst all its fellows. It wasn't until the lead pellet ripped through his shoulder that he realised it was meant for him. His body, shocked and confused, tumbled forward and nearly on top of the dead dwarf, stopped only by his forehead colliding with Flint's immoble stone body.
'John?' Flint rumbled, his voice worried and confused.
Flint is very shiny. He thought as the dark spots dancing before his eyes grew larger. Then, Please gods. Let me live.
'John?'
When his eyes didn't open, he didn't find himself face-to-face with a grinning skull, its eye sockets glowing bright, icy blue.
He didn't blink. Then, when the skull refused to resolve itself into something else, he didn't blink again.
'I guess they were busy today.' He said, or didn't say, or imagined he said.
THEY ARE NEVER VERY BUSY. MERELY DISTRACTABLE. The voice boomed like the slamming of coffin lids inside of his head, apparently whilst his ears were otherwise occupied.
'I don't suppose you're hot in that.' He remarked, nodding to the skeleton's night-black robe.
I HAVE LITTLE USE FOR HEAT. UNLESS IT IS IN A CURRY. I RATHER LIKE A HOT CURRY.
He laughed, and it made his chest hurt. This, he decided, was a promising sign. 'I'm not dead?'
NOT PRESENTLY.
He slumped back against the sand, which was oddly cool under his back. 'So you're not going to use that on me?' He asked, his hand waving vaguely at the gleaming scythe in Death's hand.
THIS? The skeleton asked, as though just now noticing it. NO. I SHOULDN'T THINK I WOULD USE THIS ON YOU.
'Why not? I got shot. People who get shot die.' He pointed out, very reasonably he thought.
YOU OF ALL PEOPLE, JOHN WATSON AGED 36, SHOULD KNOW THAT IS NOT ALWAYS THE CASE.
'No, not always. Not if I'm there to stop it. And I can hardly be there while I'm here, can I?'
Death paused and tilted his head. His skeletal face did not move, it couldn't, but he seemed…pensive.
I DISLIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE DIE. Said Death. IT'S WORK, YOU SEE. AND I WOULD MUCH PREFER TO BE HOME WITH MY CATS AND MY CURRY AND MY HORSE, DOING…HOUSE THINGS. BUT THEN THINGS LIKE WARS HAPPEN AND EVERYONE DECIDES IT'S A FINE IDEA TO DIE ALL AT ONCE. I'M ONLY ONE ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION, YOU SEE. EVEN I CAN ONLY STRETCH SO FAR. SO WARS LIKE THIS MEAN VERY LITTLE REST FOR ME.
'I can see how that would be upsetting.' The man who was not really young conceded.
YOU, JOHN WATSON AGED 36, HAVE CAUSE A NOT INCONSIDERABLE REDUCTION IN MY WORKLOAD OVER THE PAST FEW YEARS. FOR THAT, I SUSPECT I AM GRATEFUL.
John Watson, aged 36, sat up and eyed the skeleton. 'And what good does that do me? The gratitude of Death? I don't expect it's within your power to save lives.'
Death shook his head slowly. THAT, I AM AFRAID, IS SOMETHING ONLY THE LIVING CAN DO.
John Watson nodded. 'I thought as much.'
BUT I BELIEVE I CAN OFFER YOU SOME COMPENSATION.
'Oh?'
I KNOW YOU, JOHN WATSON AGED 36. I HAVE KNOWN MEN LIKE YOU. YOU ARE NOT MANY, AND WHEN YOU LIVE YOU MAKE A MARK ON THE WORLD. I KNEW A MAN LIKE YOU A TIME AGO. HIS PATH AND MINE CROSSED MORE TIMES THAN EITHER OF US SHOULD HAVE LIKED. AND SO I KNOW THE LIFE YOU WISH TO LIVE IS NOT THE LIFE YOU ARE TOLD YOU DESERVE. IT IS NOT WITHIN MY BOUNDS TO AFFECT YOU AS YOU LIVE, BUT I KNOW SOMEONE WHO CAN.
'Who?' John Watson asked.
A MAN FOR WHOM A CURSE IS A BLESSING.
John Watson arched an eyebrow. 'That's it?'
THAT IS ALL.
'Right. Okay. So… I'm definitely not dead?'
YOU ARE QUITE ALIVE.
'And I'm not dying any time soon?'
NOT THAT I KNOW OF.
He nodded. 'Okay. Then tell me this. Why are you here? It's not just to thank me.'
Death shook his head again. YOU HAVE HEARD, I IMAGINE, THAT AT SOME POINT IN HIS CAREER, A SOLDIER WILL STARE DEATH IN THE FACE?
'Of course.' John Watson said.
THIS IS MY FACE. YOU HAVE NOW STARED IN IT.
'…right.'
GOOD-BYE JOHN WATSON. AND MAY YOU LIVE IN INTERESTING TIMES.
And Death was gone. And John Watson, aged 36, was not.
Across the Circle Sea, in the famous and infamous City of Ankh-Morpork, a pale and beautiful young man was arguing with an orangutan.
'Of course I don't have a degree! Why on the Disc would I ever want to bog my brain down with all the useless tripe they teach here?'
'Ook.' The Librarian crossed his arms, a feat which required no small amount of coordination, and glared at the youth.
'Oh, that's fine for you to say you great, lumbering carpet!' The man snapped. 'But what you fail to recall is precisely who located the Tome of Aberus Grunge after you misplaced it following a week-long binge on banana daqueries!'
'Eek!' The Librarian bared his teeth and waved his arms about.
'Oh don't get into a snit, you old buffoon. Just give me the book I want and I'll be out of your fur.'
'Ooka-oo.' The orangutan grumbled.
The man shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know. Until the Yard start tripping over their own feet again. Give it a week.'
'Ook.'
The man clenched his jaw and huffed. 'Fine. A fortnight. But no more imported plantains until you reinstate my access to the restricted sections.'
'OOK!' The Librarian shrieked.
The man snorted. 'Stibbons? Please. I'm trembling.'
The librarian huffed and scampered into the stacks, returning seconds later with a thick and very dusty book in his hand, which he handed to the youth with the kind of expression you can only get by beating a rubber mask with a mallet for twenty years, then leaving it out in the sun before sending it through the wash. That is to say, that of an orangutan conveying disdain.
On his way out, the young man was nearly bowled over by the Reader in Recent Runes, who stammered an apology and, in attempting to scamper away, tripped over his own beard and spralwed face-first over the stone floor.
The young man rolled his eyes and, with a put-upon sigh, extended his arm for the Reader to take.
'Ap-ap-apologies, Master Holmes.' The Reader stammered. 'I d-d-didn't see you.'
'Clearly not.' The young man drawled. 'Perhaps you need new spectacles, Professor. If you had full use of your vision you would perhaps have noticed that I am not my brother, and thus am no one's "master". I'll thank you to remember that.'
'Oh.' The reader breathed. 'Oh, of course, mas--er, mister Holmes. Sir. Um, Sherlock. Mr Holmes.'
The man, presumably called Sherlock Holmes or some variation thereof, rolled his eyes again and turned away. 'If Arch Chancellor Stibbons wishes to wag his finger at me, tell him he'll find me in the morgue at the Lady Sybil. If you're not too busy trembling, that is.' He paused and passed his eyes over the cowering wizard. 'Presumably amongst all of these books there is one which contains a spell to return Unseen University's collective backbone.'
As he passed through the front gate to the university, the young Sherlock Holmes gasped and staggered, clutching at his chest. The ancient book very nearly tumbled from his fingers, but he managed to snatch it back in time. He rested his back against the nearest stone column and struggled to catch his breath.
His chest heaving, he raised his gaze to the (slightly) renovated Tower of Art, which hung, crumbling, over the sprawling mass of the city. A faint haze of light, a greenish, yellowish purple, shone from one dilapidated window, and black lightning crackled within.
'Well, well.' Sherlock said quietly to himself. 'Perhaps one of you has a spine, after all.'
He blinked his pale, slanted eyes and quirked his full, sculpted lips, then he spun on his heel and hailed a cab to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital.
Title: Death Dealing
Fandom(s): Sherlock, Discworld
Characters: Sherlock Cast, Death, The Librarian, some OCs
Slashy: Yes. Oh God yes.
Summary: Um...it's a crossover between Sherlock and Discworld, set 150 years after the latest DW book, which at the moment is Snuff. That lets me cheat and make things all modern-y so Sherlock can keep his phone, and Ankh-Morpork can have its own Civil Army. Also, gonnes are the primary weapon now, and no longer nead italics. Because John Watson don't shoot no damn crossbows. I will keep the swords, though, because the thought of John Fucking Watson swinging a sword with the ease and dexterity of long use? It does things to me.
Keep in mind that ANY of this is subject to change because you are LITERALLY getting the first, roughest, most basic draft. This is usually stuff only piplover gets to see, but she's been naughty and not read Discworld yet, so I need you guys to help me.
So...yeah. Enjoy. Or...not. Whatever the case may be.
Heat. It began with heat. With the sun blazing and the sands baking and pellets of lead flying much faster than small, heavy things should be permitted to fly. Several of them collided with the bodies of living things, of trolls and dwarfs and goblins and humans and even a few vampires who were too pig-headed to burn in the daylight.
And in this sweltering heat, surrounded by bodies both vertical and horizontal, a man who was only young behind his back and from a safe distance had blood on his hands. He was in the process of trying desperately to stuff as much of it as he could back into the rapidly cooling body of a young dwarf.
The dwarf shuddered and blinked, his eyes cloudy and unfocussed, and the chronologically young man could only think that the dwarf's eyelashes were remarkably long and thick, laid out the way they were across the dwarf's lightly freckled cheeks.
More lead pellets zipped through the air, several of them much too close for comfort.
'Flint!' The young man shouted.
A very dark, very glossy troll lumbered around to face him.
'Cover!'
The troll nodded and hunkered down around the young man and the dying dwarf, absorbing several lead pellets which would have been, at the very least, incredibly painful to fleshier beings. To Flint, however, they were about as debilitating as mosquito bites.
That's right. Thought the young-ish man. Keep it simple. Just keep him in place till nightfall, then he can get us the hells out of here.
'Ouch.' Said the troll, absentmindedly.
'Stay.' The man replied, working furiously to put the dwarf back in one piece. 'Cover.'
The troll nodded again, and the young man prayed to any passing god for the sun to set. Flint was little more than a rocky outcropping in heat like this.
But the gods must have been busy with all the other praying soldiers, because it was at that moment an enterprising opponent got it in his, or possibly her, or possibly its, head to shoot from a different direction.
The sound was no different to that of any other gonne being fired. The young-but-not-really man didn't even notice it amidst all its fellows. It wasn't until the lead pellet ripped through his shoulder that he realised it was meant for him. His body, shocked and confused, tumbled forward and nearly on top of the dead dwarf, stopped only by his forehead colliding with Flint's immoble stone body.
'John?' Flint rumbled, his voice worried and confused.
Flint is very shiny. He thought as the dark spots dancing before his eyes grew larger. Then, Please gods. Let me live.
'John?'
When his eyes didn't open, he didn't find himself face-to-face with a grinning skull, its eye sockets glowing bright, icy blue.
He didn't blink. Then, when the skull refused to resolve itself into something else, he didn't blink again.
'I guess they were busy today.' He said, or didn't say, or imagined he said.
THEY ARE NEVER VERY BUSY. MERELY DISTRACTABLE. The voice boomed like the slamming of coffin lids inside of his head, apparently whilst his ears were otherwise occupied.
'I don't suppose you're hot in that.' He remarked, nodding to the skeleton's night-black robe.
I HAVE LITTLE USE FOR HEAT. UNLESS IT IS IN A CURRY. I RATHER LIKE A HOT CURRY.
He laughed, and it made his chest hurt. This, he decided, was a promising sign. 'I'm not dead?'
NOT PRESENTLY.
He slumped back against the sand, which was oddly cool under his back. 'So you're not going to use that on me?' He asked, his hand waving vaguely at the gleaming scythe in Death's hand.
THIS? The skeleton asked, as though just now noticing it. NO. I SHOULDN'T THINK I WOULD USE THIS ON YOU.
'Why not? I got shot. People who get shot die.' He pointed out, very reasonably he thought.
YOU OF ALL PEOPLE, JOHN WATSON AGED 36, SHOULD KNOW THAT IS NOT ALWAYS THE CASE.
'No, not always. Not if I'm there to stop it. And I can hardly be there while I'm here, can I?'
Death paused and tilted his head. His skeletal face did not move, it couldn't, but he seemed…pensive.
I DISLIKE IT WHEN PEOPLE DIE. Said Death. IT'S WORK, YOU SEE. AND I WOULD MUCH PREFER TO BE HOME WITH MY CATS AND MY CURRY AND MY HORSE, DOING…HOUSE THINGS. BUT THEN THINGS LIKE WARS HAPPEN AND EVERYONE DECIDES IT'S A FINE IDEA TO DIE ALL AT ONCE. I'M ONLY ONE ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION, YOU SEE. EVEN I CAN ONLY STRETCH SO FAR. SO WARS LIKE THIS MEAN VERY LITTLE REST FOR ME.
'I can see how that would be upsetting.' The man who was not really young conceded.
YOU, JOHN WATSON AGED 36, HAVE CAUSE A NOT INCONSIDERABLE REDUCTION IN MY WORKLOAD OVER THE PAST FEW YEARS. FOR THAT, I SUSPECT I AM GRATEFUL.
John Watson, aged 36, sat up and eyed the skeleton. 'And what good does that do me? The gratitude of Death? I don't expect it's within your power to save lives.'
Death shook his head slowly. THAT, I AM AFRAID, IS SOMETHING ONLY THE LIVING CAN DO.
John Watson nodded. 'I thought as much.'
BUT I BELIEVE I CAN OFFER YOU SOME COMPENSATION.
'Oh?'
I KNOW YOU, JOHN WATSON AGED 36. I HAVE KNOWN MEN LIKE YOU. YOU ARE NOT MANY, AND WHEN YOU LIVE YOU MAKE A MARK ON THE WORLD. I KNEW A MAN LIKE YOU A TIME AGO. HIS PATH AND MINE CROSSED MORE TIMES THAN EITHER OF US SHOULD HAVE LIKED. AND SO I KNOW THE LIFE YOU WISH TO LIVE IS NOT THE LIFE YOU ARE TOLD YOU DESERVE. IT IS NOT WITHIN MY BOUNDS TO AFFECT YOU AS YOU LIVE, BUT I KNOW SOMEONE WHO CAN.
'Who?' John Watson asked.
A MAN FOR WHOM A CURSE IS A BLESSING.
John Watson arched an eyebrow. 'That's it?'
THAT IS ALL.
'Right. Okay. So… I'm definitely not dead?'
YOU ARE QUITE ALIVE.
'And I'm not dying any time soon?'
NOT THAT I KNOW OF.
He nodded. 'Okay. Then tell me this. Why are you here? It's not just to thank me.'
Death shook his head again. YOU HAVE HEARD, I IMAGINE, THAT AT SOME POINT IN HIS CAREER, A SOLDIER WILL STARE DEATH IN THE FACE?
'Of course.' John Watson said.
THIS IS MY FACE. YOU HAVE NOW STARED IN IT.
'…right.'
GOOD-BYE JOHN WATSON. AND MAY YOU LIVE IN INTERESTING TIMES.
And Death was gone. And John Watson, aged 36, was not.
Across the Circle Sea, in the famous and infamous City of Ankh-Morpork, a pale and beautiful young man was arguing with an orangutan.
'Of course I don't have a degree! Why on the Disc would I ever want to bog my brain down with all the useless tripe they teach here?'
'Ook.' The Librarian crossed his arms, a feat which required no small amount of coordination, and glared at the youth.
'Oh, that's fine for you to say you great, lumbering carpet!' The man snapped. 'But what you fail to recall is precisely who located the Tome of Aberus Grunge after you misplaced it following a week-long binge on banana daqueries!'
'Eek!' The Librarian bared his teeth and waved his arms about.
'Oh don't get into a snit, you old buffoon. Just give me the book I want and I'll be out of your fur.'
'Ooka-oo.' The orangutan grumbled.
The man shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know. Until the Yard start tripping over their own feet again. Give it a week.'
'Ook.'
The man clenched his jaw and huffed. 'Fine. A fortnight. But no more imported plantains until you reinstate my access to the restricted sections.'
'OOK!' The Librarian shrieked.
The man snorted. 'Stibbons? Please. I'm trembling.'
The librarian huffed and scampered into the stacks, returning seconds later with a thick and very dusty book in his hand, which he handed to the youth with the kind of expression you can only get by beating a rubber mask with a mallet for twenty years, then leaving it out in the sun before sending it through the wash. That is to say, that of an orangutan conveying disdain.
On his way out, the young man was nearly bowled over by the Reader in Recent Runes, who stammered an apology and, in attempting to scamper away, tripped over his own beard and spralwed face-first over the stone floor.
The young man rolled his eyes and, with a put-upon sigh, extended his arm for the Reader to take.
'Ap-ap-apologies, Master Holmes.' The Reader stammered. 'I d-d-didn't see you.'
'Clearly not.' The young man drawled. 'Perhaps you need new spectacles, Professor. If you had full use of your vision you would perhaps have noticed that I am not my brother, and thus am no one's "master". I'll thank you to remember that.'
'Oh.' The reader breathed. 'Oh, of course, mas--er, mister Holmes. Sir. Um, Sherlock. Mr Holmes.'
The man, presumably called Sherlock Holmes or some variation thereof, rolled his eyes again and turned away. 'If Arch Chancellor Stibbons wishes to wag his finger at me, tell him he'll find me in the morgue at the Lady Sybil. If you're not too busy trembling, that is.' He paused and passed his eyes over the cowering wizard. 'Presumably amongst all of these books there is one which contains a spell to return Unseen University's collective backbone.'
As he passed through the front gate to the university, the young Sherlock Holmes gasped and staggered, clutching at his chest. The ancient book very nearly tumbled from his fingers, but he managed to snatch it back in time. He rested his back against the nearest stone column and struggled to catch his breath.
His chest heaving, he raised his gaze to the (slightly) renovated Tower of Art, which hung, crumbling, over the sprawling mass of the city. A faint haze of light, a greenish, yellowish purple, shone from one dilapidated window, and black lightning crackled within.
'Well, well.' Sherlock said quietly to himself. 'Perhaps one of you has a spine, after all.'
He blinked his pale, slanted eyes and quirked his full, sculpted lips, then he spun on his heel and hailed a cab to the Lady Sybil Free Hospital.