A Town Called Original Sin- Epilogue I
Title: A Town Called Original Sin - Epilogue I
Fandom/s: Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover
Pairings: Chandler/Kent
Rating: 15
Disclaimer: Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.
Warnings: Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.
Spoilers: Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.
BETA: 4492
Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here
A/N: Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"
Summary: It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.
Baker Street, was, for once quiet. Not quiet as in the sounds of the street didn't permeate the thin walls, and the humming of Mrs Hudson's cooker didn't irritate his ears. But quiet enough that his thoughts stayed within his skull and didn't overspill into the patches, the needle, the need to fight.
There was the heavy thump of feet on the hallway above; John.
It only could be John. He was, coping, Sherlock supposed. Keeping busy and making sure that he settled in routine.
Routine was safe. Routine was boring. Routine wasn't what would help him in the end.
John needed action, he needed something to work towards, people to help, he needed to be active.
“I need a cup of tea.”
Sherlock turned from the window and faced John. He looked, tired, but he was smiling, faintly.
“There's a kettle in the kitchen, and I think we have some usable tea bags somewhere, I can't say the same for the milk.”
John rolled his eyes at him, and Sherlock flashed a smile. It was a smile, not one of his jovial grins, he hoped that John appreciated it.
“If I get poisoned Sherlock...”
The threat was left hanging in the air, but Sherlock only laughed, and reached towards his Stradivarius. The flat was quiet, and his playing was more than adequate to fill the void.
The weight of his violin was comforting in his hands, he slotted it against his neck with ease. Vindicated somehow. He reached for his bow, perhaps some Vivaldi.
His fingers brushed an envelope.
He remembered taking the post, one morning, perhaps a month ago- the postmark would confirm it- and out of annoyance had scattered them. There had been nothing of any interest. Bills for Sherlock, bills for John, no cases, nothing of any interest, and this letter had landed were it was thrown and rested.
Johnny Watson
221B Baker Street
London
“Sherlock, what's that?”
John held out one of the mugs for Sherlock, looking questionably at the envelope. He tossed his Stradivarius onto the sofa, loosening up his neck, and accepted the coffee mug.
“This arrived for you. At least a month ago. I only just found it.”
He passed it to John, who froze.
So the handwriting was Harry's then. He'd supposed as much, it was clearly feminine and the use of the nickname Johnny which Sherlock had never heard before.
John torn open the envelope with shaking fingers.
There was a photograph, and a note, which John skimmed eyes watering.
Then John looked at the photograph.
And laughed.
Sherlock frowned, gesturing out to John for the note.
I found this going though a few boxes the other day. Thought you'd like a copy of it.
Those were the days weren't they?
Love you little bro,
Harry.
Something from their childhood, it seemed, a family memory perhaps.
John was still smiling. Perhaps he was beginning to heal, coming full circle.
John offered the photograph to Sherlock, who took it, and smiled.
It was a photograph of John and Harry. They were much younger, John couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and he was standing with his arm looped around Harry's shoulder.
They were apparently pretending to be each other. Harry was wearing an ill-fitting jumper (John's lack of style had clearly been ingrained from a young age) and her hair had been brushed back, whilst John had dragged up, eye-shadow, lipstick and a terribly patterned dress.
John was still smiling.
It was good, Sherlock decided, for John's last memory to be of this Harriet, alive and laughing, not cut up and dead.
“She'd have been proud of you. Well probably.”
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | (Interlude) | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Epilogue I | Epilogue II
Fandom/s: Sherlock/Whitechapel Crossover
Pairings: Chandler/Kent
Rating: 15
Disclaimer: Whitechapel and Sherlock belong to ITV and the BBC respectively.
Warnings: Murder, angst, heartbreak, violence, injury, a perchance for cliffhangers, character death.
Spoilers: Post- The Great Game for Sherlock, and Post- Series 2 for Whitechapel.
BETA: 4492
Masterlist and in-depth fic header Here
A/N: Title from Scouting For Girls' "Little Miss Naughty"
Summary: It wouldn't be a copy cat, if they didn't strike more than once.
Baker Street, was, for once quiet. Not quiet as in the sounds of the street didn't permeate the thin walls, and the humming of Mrs Hudson's cooker didn't irritate his ears. But quiet enough that his thoughts stayed within his skull and didn't overspill into the patches, the needle, the need to fight.
There was the heavy thump of feet on the hallway above; John.
It only could be John. He was, coping, Sherlock supposed. Keeping busy and making sure that he settled in routine.
Routine was safe. Routine was boring. Routine wasn't what would help him in the end.
John needed action, he needed something to work towards, people to help, he needed to be active.
“I need a cup of tea.”
Sherlock turned from the window and faced John. He looked, tired, but he was smiling, faintly.
“There's a kettle in the kitchen, and I think we have some usable tea bags somewhere, I can't say the same for the milk.”
John rolled his eyes at him, and Sherlock flashed a smile. It was a smile, not one of his jovial grins, he hoped that John appreciated it.
“If I get poisoned Sherlock...”
The threat was left hanging in the air, but Sherlock only laughed, and reached towards his Stradivarius. The flat was quiet, and his playing was more than adequate to fill the void.
The weight of his violin was comforting in his hands, he slotted it against his neck with ease. Vindicated somehow. He reached for his bow, perhaps some Vivaldi.
His fingers brushed an envelope.
He remembered taking the post, one morning, perhaps a month ago- the postmark would confirm it- and out of annoyance had scattered them. There had been nothing of any interest. Bills for Sherlock, bills for John, no cases, nothing of any interest, and this letter had landed were it was thrown and rested.
Johnny Watson
221B Baker Street
London
“Sherlock, what's that?”
John held out one of the mugs for Sherlock, looking questionably at the envelope. He tossed his Stradivarius onto the sofa, loosening up his neck, and accepted the coffee mug.
“This arrived for you. At least a month ago. I only just found it.”
He passed it to John, who froze.
So the handwriting was Harry's then. He'd supposed as much, it was clearly feminine and the use of the nickname Johnny which Sherlock had never heard before.
John torn open the envelope with shaking fingers.
There was a photograph, and a note, which John skimmed eyes watering.
Then John looked at the photograph.
And laughed.
Sherlock frowned, gesturing out to John for the note.
I found this going though a few boxes the other day. Thought you'd like a copy of it.
Those were the days weren't they?
Love you little bro,
Harry.
Something from their childhood, it seemed, a family memory perhaps.
John was still smiling. Perhaps he was beginning to heal, coming full circle.
John offered the photograph to Sherlock, who took it, and smiled.
It was a photograph of John and Harry. They were much younger, John couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and he was standing with his arm looped around Harry's shoulder.
They were apparently pretending to be each other. Harry was wearing an ill-fitting jumper (John's lack of style had clearly been ingrained from a young age) and her hair had been brushed back, whilst John had dragged up, eye-shadow, lipstick and a terribly patterned dress.
John was still smiling.
It was good, Sherlock decided, for John's last memory to be of this Harriet, alive and laughing, not cut up and dead.
“She'd have been proud of you. Well probably.”
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | (Interlude) | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Epilogue I | Epilogue II