Until We Meet Again, a HLxSH crossover
Disclaimer: none of them is mine...
A/N: from 'The Hound of Baskervilles' I took Sir Henry Baskerville, Jack Stapleton, Inspector Lestrade and scenery; from 'Highlander: The series' - Methos (who is incidentally Sherlock Holmes here) and Cassandra (who is Mrs. Stapleton). Of course, this is AU. Watson knows that Holmes is Immortal.
Something is missing. And nagging him to remember it right now. Problem is, Sherlock Holmes's Law of the Attic allows no exceptions, which means Whatever It Is has to wait for his brain to deal with its other occupants and turn, with a sigh, to A New Idea. That's how brains work, no consideration for their owners' comfort and safety.
Anyway, there is Something about the manuscript, the legend of a violent baron, and - the name, yes, It must be the name...
He is trying to fell asleep when It hits him. Hard.
'Oh, no. No. Not that Hugo Baskerville!'
He rushes to Devonshire, taking a toothbrush, a revolver, and a handful of collars, which immediately and irreversibly wilts into a gritty fistful.
Even collars turned against him. This is how civilizations end.
He only hopes to intercept someone of whom he knows that they are: Immortal; eager to re-claim their property; willing to kill without remorse. Who has already escaped him thrice in London, a city he knows as the back of his hand.
And the battleground is chosen by the enemy. He hasn’t seen the country since…
Yes. Perfect.
Methos smiles.
He has some experience as a caveman.
Good old Watson. Brave sitting duck. Damn. Writing his reports from a lion's den without a single grammar mistake. It soothes his jangling nerves. Everything else has the opposite effect: the canine lullabies, the insane convict and his will-o-wisp-ing relations, the so-called typist Laura Lyons (he knows a Watcher when he sees one).
And the weather seems to have it in for him. Or maybe it is just memories. This is an old land, after all. Plenty of graves.
But sometimes, during his darker musings, he ghosts a hand over a moss-covered slab, and hears an echo of Holy Ground.
He managed to surprise his friend again. Actually, the way Watson jumps at every shadow, he probably shouldn't have. Then again, he has long ago established that surprising friends is far less unpleasant than being dead.
Instinct tells him the case will come to an end soon; and another, to keep his scimitar close at hand.
The night is young.
The victim is not his client, though he privately fears only luck has preserved sir Henry’s life thus far. Some people are simply more - mortal - than others.
And Hugo - Jack - has guts; he's got to say that for the boy.
Cover blown, he allows himself to be led away from his Neolithic abode towards what both he and Mr. Stapleton must think of as a promising hostage nursery. He grinds his teeth. He'll wire the police in the morning. Tonight he'll drink, and listen to their host's rambling. It should not be difficult to ask a few questions about the charming Miss Stapleton. He feels like he misses something here, something as big as the memory that sent him scrambling to this desolate place.
He just can't trust tall Spanish women with soulful eyes.
Call it obsession, but he can’t.
The end has come. More like waited benignly for them to wander into the ambush, and then stood up and waved.
They shot the dog, took care of - hopefully, less threatened now - Sir Henry Baskerville, ran to the house, and the long-awaited Buzz slammed into his head. Disconcerting. Either Hugo was stupider than his usual, or more dangerous. Either way, he enters the room with trepidation.
And sees her.
Impossible!
She struggles against the ropes, and for a moment he is then and there -
But Watson pushes him to unbind her, and he wakes himself with a cry.
Has he escaped? She asks.
He cannot escape us, madam, says G. Lestrade, one of the finest Inspectors of Scotland Yard.
Watson bits his tongue. Methos's long face freezes. Cassandra's hands twitch, welts paling ominously. Unfortunately, Lestrade blinks, and misses two glares that’d have sent a lesser man crying... for the last time in their lives.
From the mouths of babes, thinks he who is called Sherlock Holmes. For now, he’d escape Cassandra, send his client to travel round the world, perhaps take a long vacation himself; but someday, they will meet again.
Even the Grimpen mire will dry out.
A/N: from 'The Hound of Baskervilles' I took Sir Henry Baskerville, Jack Stapleton, Inspector Lestrade and scenery; from 'Highlander: The series' - Methos (who is incidentally Sherlock Holmes here) and Cassandra (who is Mrs. Stapleton). Of course, this is AU. Watson knows that Holmes is Immortal.
Something is missing. And nagging him to remember it right now. Problem is, Sherlock Holmes's Law of the Attic allows no exceptions, which means Whatever It Is has to wait for his brain to deal with its other occupants and turn, with a sigh, to A New Idea. That's how brains work, no consideration for their owners' comfort and safety.
Anyway, there is Something about the manuscript, the legend of a violent baron, and - the name, yes, It must be the name...
He is trying to fell asleep when It hits him. Hard.
'Oh, no. No. Not that Hugo Baskerville!'
He rushes to Devonshire, taking a toothbrush, a revolver, and a handful of collars, which immediately and irreversibly wilts into a gritty fistful.
Even collars turned against him. This is how civilizations end.
He only hopes to intercept someone of whom he knows that they are: Immortal; eager to re-claim their property; willing to kill without remorse. Who has already escaped him thrice in London, a city he knows as the back of his hand.
And the battleground is chosen by the enemy. He hasn’t seen the country since…
Yes. Perfect.
Methos smiles.
He has some experience as a caveman.
Good old Watson. Brave sitting duck. Damn. Writing his reports from a lion's den without a single grammar mistake. It soothes his jangling nerves. Everything else has the opposite effect: the canine lullabies, the insane convict and his will-o-wisp-ing relations, the so-called typist Laura Lyons (he knows a Watcher when he sees one).
And the weather seems to have it in for him. Or maybe it is just memories. This is an old land, after all. Plenty of graves.
But sometimes, during his darker musings, he ghosts a hand over a moss-covered slab, and hears an echo of Holy Ground.
He managed to surprise his friend again. Actually, the way Watson jumps at every shadow, he probably shouldn't have. Then again, he has long ago established that surprising friends is far less unpleasant than being dead.
Instinct tells him the case will come to an end soon; and another, to keep his scimitar close at hand.
The night is young.
The victim is not his client, though he privately fears only luck has preserved sir Henry’s life thus far. Some people are simply more - mortal - than others.
And Hugo - Jack - has guts; he's got to say that for the boy.
Cover blown, he allows himself to be led away from his Neolithic abode towards what both he and Mr. Stapleton must think of as a promising hostage nursery. He grinds his teeth. He'll wire the police in the morning. Tonight he'll drink, and listen to their host's rambling. It should not be difficult to ask a few questions about the charming Miss Stapleton. He feels like he misses something here, something as big as the memory that sent him scrambling to this desolate place.
He just can't trust tall Spanish women with soulful eyes.
Call it obsession, but he can’t.
The end has come. More like waited benignly for them to wander into the ambush, and then stood up and waved.
They shot the dog, took care of - hopefully, less threatened now - Sir Henry Baskerville, ran to the house, and the long-awaited Buzz slammed into his head. Disconcerting. Either Hugo was stupider than his usual, or more dangerous. Either way, he enters the room with trepidation.
And sees her.
Impossible!
She struggles against the ropes, and for a moment he is then and there -
But Watson pushes him to unbind her, and he wakes himself with a cry.
Has he escaped? She asks.
He cannot escape us, madam, says G. Lestrade, one of the finest Inspectors of Scotland Yard.
Watson bits his tongue. Methos's long face freezes. Cassandra's hands twitch, welts paling ominously. Unfortunately, Lestrade blinks, and misses two glares that’d have sent a lesser man crying... for the last time in their lives.
From the mouths of babes, thinks he who is called Sherlock Holmes. For now, he’d escape Cassandra, send his client to travel round the world, perhaps take a long vacation himself; but someday, they will meet again.
Even the Grimpen mire will dry out.