The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
For a challenge at wlreunion--to do a fic of at least 1000 words using any of the prompts. I managed to use all of them, but I guess "protector," "family," and "unexpected" are the most prompt-y. I've never really done a cross-over. Not sure if it really works. But it was fun. There may be more parts at some point. And kudos as always to the fine beta work of my pal bluesunflowers. You make everything better.
The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, post Season 7.
Crossover: with...you'll see
Words: 1550
Prompts: dancing, protector, war, past, survivor, apocalypse, magic, trust, betrayal, unexpected, precision, water, ship, loss, family
I
Willow peers out the tall window at the misty, noisy street below. "London," she says, almost reverently. "I always wondered if I'd ever make it here." She turns to look at her companions with a rueful shrug. "Didn't know it'd be like this, though."
"If you mean being a survivor of the war of good over evil,” Xander started ticking off the numbers with his fingers. “Barely averting the Apocalypse, watching our suburban town disappear into oblivion, and then trekking across the desert with a bus full of young girls training to be vampire slayers,” he grinned, leaning over the room service trolley to spear a sausage. “Yeah, I guess that woulda been hard to predict."
"Hey, when you put it that way, it doesn't even sound that bad." Buffy jumps up from her last push-up and lopes over to join Willow at the window. The fog is lifting, but despite the punctuation of yellow slickers, colorful umbrellas, and red double-decker buses, the overall look is of cool, teeming blacks and greys. Soothing to the eyes, after what they'd been through--searing explosions, burning dry sun, decrepit motels. Eventually Giles had obtained the means to get them on flights to London--the less remembered about that hectic melee, the better--and finally they were breathing a sigh of relief, having gotten the girls to the Council school on the outskirts of the city, and ventured into the heart of London to do god-knows-what now. "It looks….pretty," she says softly, not even knowing what she means by the word, but feeling a strange sense of loss.
"It's a brilliant city, marvelous," proclaims Giles, entering from the adjoining room, putting on an overcoat. Buffy turns from the window and squints at him. "You going somewhere?"
"Yes, well, it seems this will be our base until the next phase is sorted with the Council. So, I'm rekindling some local connections; see about getting us situated. Until we are, your time is your own. You lot should go out, explore, experience the magic!" Buffy and Willow eye each other speculatively. "I'll go see if Dawnie is awake," Willow chirps.
"Yes, yes, do!" Giles wraps a scarf around his neck, turns, and opens the door to the hallway. "Ah, this should help. The Times! Jolly good!" He scoops the paper from the threshold, thrusts it at Willow on her way into the bedroom, and departs.
Xander grabs another sausage. "Not me, nuh-uh. I plan to take the world's longest shower and park myself in front of the -- they call it 'telly.' right?" Plopping onto the couch, he sighs happily. "Ah, cable, how I have missed thee."
Buffy's about to try and convince him, when she hears a gasp and sees Willow, looking stunned, walking back into the sitting room, newspaper in her hands. "Uh, guys? I think you better take a look at this," she says, as she turns the headline toward them.
II
"Greg Lestrade! It's really you!" Giles enters the office, grinning at the man in the rumpled suit, who leaps to his feet. "Rupert, you old dog!" The two men clasp hands and awkwardly shoulder-pat in the manner of men raised as Englishmen, who are, yet, genuinely pleased to see each other. Lestrade motions to a chair, and sits back down at the desk. "Been decades, mate, but I'd recognize you anywhere!"
"You're still the spit of the little git wouldn't leave me and your brother alone." Giles grins at the memory as he sits across from the desk. "How is George, anyway?"
"Good, good, got the family in Brighton, you know he always wanted to live by the water. Seaside copper, him."
"Always the Great Protector, George," Giles reminisces. "But you as well, eh? Never would have thought you'd end up here." Slouching slightly, he stretches his legs and looks around him.
Lestrade shrugs. "Couldn't stay forever dancing at clubs and trying to sing in punk bands, could I?" He thrusts his hand through his hair, leaving it spiking in all directions, and Giles hides a smile at the well-remembered gesture from the past. "But true enough, long leap from there to here. Detective Inspector, can you believe it? Still, you're one to be talking. Tweed and corduroy and all respectable now, yeah? Not a trace of the old Ripper. California kids' librarian, we hear. So, you deserting the sunny skies for your home turf? Or just taking a break from the easy life?"
Giles quirks a smile as a prelude to launching into his prepared story. "Could be either, actually. Got some students with me, cultural tour, but also scouting out a permanent set-up -- kind of ongoing exchange program, if you will. Matter of fact, I was going to ask you, they're studying criminology, this lot, and---"
Suddenly, shouting erupts outside the office, and they're both half out of their chairs when a tall figure in a long coat comes swirling through Lestrade's open door, followed by a shorter, sturdy man who's yelling "Just leave it, all right?!" back over his shoulder.
Lestrade sinks back into his chair with a groan; the tall figure leans across the desk with a pointed finger; and the sturdy fellow gives Giles a curious yet friendly nod and stands to the side at what can only be described as parade rest.
"Sherlock, it's not a good time," Lestrade starts to protest, "Can't you see I'm--"
"Busy?" the newcomer interrupts, looking incredulous. "Busy are you? Busy solving your case? Right along with your team out there lounging without a clue, and I mean that literally, not a clue about what is happening under your noses!"
Lestrade stands, indignantly. "Sherlock! Enough! They won't get anywhere with you constantly berating them; I've told you--"
"And I told you! I told you they were pale, I told you, but that idiot Anderson wouldn't confirm, and we've lost days, and the chance of the evidence at the scene, but no, you had to banish me, ME! And now, now Molly's confirmed, each of those alleyway victims were half-drained of their blood, with puncture marks to the femoral artery, not immediately apparent, and because of your sheer idiocy--"
All at once, Parade Rest steps forward with a "Sherlock!"; Lestrade balls his fist with a "Bloody Hell!" and Giles is shocked out of his baffled amusement by the words "half-drained of their blood" and leaps to his feet shouting "What?"
As if in slow motion, the other three swivel their heads towards him. Sherlock's eyes narrow, and his gaze sweeps Giles from top to toe and back again. Giles remains frozen, willing himself back into the guise of an innocuous bystander, but clearly his unexpected outburst has caused a breach.
Lestrade blinks. "Uh, oh, yeah, Rupert Giles, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Rupert's an old family friend, just back in London after--"
"After living in the United States, yes, California, Southern California," Sherlock turns fully to face Giles, moves toward him, pale eyes riveting. "Just arrived in town, hmm, yesterday, travelled down from … Luton, I believe, an oddly arduous journey, not from Luton, I mean from the States, which you wouldn't expect in this modern era, but it's more than a bad plane flight or lost luggage, that wouldn't account for an all-new wardrobe, including shoes, purchased in Luton, obviously urgently, else why not wait until London, where the shops and selection are far superior. Not that you are a particularly wardrobe-conscious sort--" he turns for a moment to John Watson, who rolls his eyes--"but still, everything speaks to urgency and a difficult journey, in the company of many, many … young people, so a teacher, perhaps, a student trip, but not a planned one." Lestrade lets out a breath, almost a growl; but Sherlock carries on. "So, an escape, from Southern California, no possessions, partly across the U.S., flight to London, arranged with difficulty, a detour to a small outlying area, home of a University and outer-zone agencies, blended with your age, your relatively good fitness for a man your age, your signet ring, and the betrayal of your interest in half-drained corpses all leads me to deduce that …" He pauses, eyes widening and brightening, as he excitedly spins toward Lestrade and John, both gaping … "All of which leads me to deduce, Inspector, that your 'old family friend' is just the man to help us with our case!"
In the silence that follows, Rupert Giles slumps back in his chair and accepts the inevitable.
III
"Problem, sir?"
Mycroft Holmes looks up from the computer screen, removes his earpiece and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Problem, solution, who's to say, Anthea, my dear." Anthea frowns slightly at this unusual lack of precision and peers at the screen. "Is it to do with the gentleman talking with your brother and the Detective Inspector? Something that requires ... intervention?"
Mycroft considers the screen again, fingers the earpiece, doesn't replace it. "No, I'm afraid the ship has sailed. The unexpected has occurred, and all we can do now is trust to the fates." He gives her a crooked smile and reaches for his mobile, his signet ring clicking against the metal.
As Anthea walks away from the desk, quite desperately concerned about her superior's uncharacteristic utterances ("trust to the fates"? Mycroft Holmes?) she hears--without quite wanting to--the murmured words "council" and "watchers" and "shadow men" floating on the air behind her.
Part II here.
The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, post Season 7.
Crossover: with...you'll see
Words: 1550
Prompts: dancing, protector, war, past, survivor, apocalypse, magic, trust, betrayal, unexpected, precision, water, ship, loss, family
I
Willow peers out the tall window at the misty, noisy street below. "London," she says, almost reverently. "I always wondered if I'd ever make it here." She turns to look at her companions with a rueful shrug. "Didn't know it'd be like this, though."
"If you mean being a survivor of the war of good over evil,” Xander started ticking off the numbers with his fingers. “Barely averting the Apocalypse, watching our suburban town disappear into oblivion, and then trekking across the desert with a bus full of young girls training to be vampire slayers,” he grinned, leaning over the room service trolley to spear a sausage. “Yeah, I guess that woulda been hard to predict."
"Hey, when you put it that way, it doesn't even sound that bad." Buffy jumps up from her last push-up and lopes over to join Willow at the window. The fog is lifting, but despite the punctuation of yellow slickers, colorful umbrellas, and red double-decker buses, the overall look is of cool, teeming blacks and greys. Soothing to the eyes, after what they'd been through--searing explosions, burning dry sun, decrepit motels. Eventually Giles had obtained the means to get them on flights to London--the less remembered about that hectic melee, the better--and finally they were breathing a sigh of relief, having gotten the girls to the Council school on the outskirts of the city, and ventured into the heart of London to do god-knows-what now. "It looks….pretty," she says softly, not even knowing what she means by the word, but feeling a strange sense of loss.
"It's a brilliant city, marvelous," proclaims Giles, entering from the adjoining room, putting on an overcoat. Buffy turns from the window and squints at him. "You going somewhere?"
"Yes, well, it seems this will be our base until the next phase is sorted with the Council. So, I'm rekindling some local connections; see about getting us situated. Until we are, your time is your own. You lot should go out, explore, experience the magic!" Buffy and Willow eye each other speculatively. "I'll go see if Dawnie is awake," Willow chirps.
"Yes, yes, do!" Giles wraps a scarf around his neck, turns, and opens the door to the hallway. "Ah, this should help. The Times! Jolly good!" He scoops the paper from the threshold, thrusts it at Willow on her way into the bedroom, and departs.
Xander grabs another sausage. "Not me, nuh-uh. I plan to take the world's longest shower and park myself in front of the -- they call it 'telly.' right?" Plopping onto the couch, he sighs happily. "Ah, cable, how I have missed thee."
Buffy's about to try and convince him, when she hears a gasp and sees Willow, looking stunned, walking back into the sitting room, newspaper in her hands. "Uh, guys? I think you better take a look at this," she says, as she turns the headline toward them.
II
"Greg Lestrade! It's really you!" Giles enters the office, grinning at the man in the rumpled suit, who leaps to his feet. "Rupert, you old dog!" The two men clasp hands and awkwardly shoulder-pat in the manner of men raised as Englishmen, who are, yet, genuinely pleased to see each other. Lestrade motions to a chair, and sits back down at the desk. "Been decades, mate, but I'd recognize you anywhere!"
"You're still the spit of the little git wouldn't leave me and your brother alone." Giles grins at the memory as he sits across from the desk. "How is George, anyway?"
"Good, good, got the family in Brighton, you know he always wanted to live by the water. Seaside copper, him."
"Always the Great Protector, George," Giles reminisces. "But you as well, eh? Never would have thought you'd end up here." Slouching slightly, he stretches his legs and looks around him.
Lestrade shrugs. "Couldn't stay forever dancing at clubs and trying to sing in punk bands, could I?" He thrusts his hand through his hair, leaving it spiking in all directions, and Giles hides a smile at the well-remembered gesture from the past. "But true enough, long leap from there to here. Detective Inspector, can you believe it? Still, you're one to be talking. Tweed and corduroy and all respectable now, yeah? Not a trace of the old Ripper. California kids' librarian, we hear. So, you deserting the sunny skies for your home turf? Or just taking a break from the easy life?"
Giles quirks a smile as a prelude to launching into his prepared story. "Could be either, actually. Got some students with me, cultural tour, but also scouting out a permanent set-up -- kind of ongoing exchange program, if you will. Matter of fact, I was going to ask you, they're studying criminology, this lot, and---"
Suddenly, shouting erupts outside the office, and they're both half out of their chairs when a tall figure in a long coat comes swirling through Lestrade's open door, followed by a shorter, sturdy man who's yelling "Just leave it, all right?!" back over his shoulder.
Lestrade sinks back into his chair with a groan; the tall figure leans across the desk with a pointed finger; and the sturdy fellow gives Giles a curious yet friendly nod and stands to the side at what can only be described as parade rest.
"Sherlock, it's not a good time," Lestrade starts to protest, "Can't you see I'm--"
"Busy?" the newcomer interrupts, looking incredulous. "Busy are you? Busy solving your case? Right along with your team out there lounging without a clue, and I mean that literally, not a clue about what is happening under your noses!"
Lestrade stands, indignantly. "Sherlock! Enough! They won't get anywhere with you constantly berating them; I've told you--"
"And I told you! I told you they were pale, I told you, but that idiot Anderson wouldn't confirm, and we've lost days, and the chance of the evidence at the scene, but no, you had to banish me, ME! And now, now Molly's confirmed, each of those alleyway victims were half-drained of their blood, with puncture marks to the femoral artery, not immediately apparent, and because of your sheer idiocy--"
All at once, Parade Rest steps forward with a "Sherlock!"; Lestrade balls his fist with a "Bloody Hell!" and Giles is shocked out of his baffled amusement by the words "half-drained of their blood" and leaps to his feet shouting "What?"
As if in slow motion, the other three swivel their heads towards him. Sherlock's eyes narrow, and his gaze sweeps Giles from top to toe and back again. Giles remains frozen, willing himself back into the guise of an innocuous bystander, but clearly his unexpected outburst has caused a breach.
Lestrade blinks. "Uh, oh, yeah, Rupert Giles, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Rupert's an old family friend, just back in London after--"
"After living in the United States, yes, California, Southern California," Sherlock turns fully to face Giles, moves toward him, pale eyes riveting. "Just arrived in town, hmm, yesterday, travelled down from … Luton, I believe, an oddly arduous journey, not from Luton, I mean from the States, which you wouldn't expect in this modern era, but it's more than a bad plane flight or lost luggage, that wouldn't account for an all-new wardrobe, including shoes, purchased in Luton, obviously urgently, else why not wait until London, where the shops and selection are far superior. Not that you are a particularly wardrobe-conscious sort--" he turns for a moment to John Watson, who rolls his eyes--"but still, everything speaks to urgency and a difficult journey, in the company of many, many … young people, so a teacher, perhaps, a student trip, but not a planned one." Lestrade lets out a breath, almost a growl; but Sherlock carries on. "So, an escape, from Southern California, no possessions, partly across the U.S., flight to London, arranged with difficulty, a detour to a small outlying area, home of a University and outer-zone agencies, blended with your age, your relatively good fitness for a man your age, your signet ring, and the betrayal of your interest in half-drained corpses all leads me to deduce that …" He pauses, eyes widening and brightening, as he excitedly spins toward Lestrade and John, both gaping … "All of which leads me to deduce, Inspector, that your 'old family friend' is just the man to help us with our case!"
In the silence that follows, Rupert Giles slumps back in his chair and accepts the inevitable.
III
"Problem, sir?"
Mycroft Holmes looks up from the computer screen, removes his earpiece and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Problem, solution, who's to say, Anthea, my dear." Anthea frowns slightly at this unusual lack of precision and peers at the screen. "Is it to do with the gentleman talking with your brother and the Detective Inspector? Something that requires ... intervention?"
Mycroft considers the screen again, fingers the earpiece, doesn't replace it. "No, I'm afraid the ship has sailed. The unexpected has occurred, and all we can do now is trust to the fates." He gives her a crooked smile and reaches for his mobile, his signet ring clicking against the metal.
As Anthea walks away from the desk, quite desperately concerned about her superior's uncharacteristic utterances ("trust to the fates"? Mycroft Holmes?) she hears--without quite wanting to--the murmured words "council" and "watchers" and "shadow men" floating on the air behind her.
Part II here.