The Case of the Half-Drained Vics Part Two
For a crossover fic challenge at the-deepbluesea. This is a continuation of a story I started here for a different challenge; it may not make sense if you don't skim that part. I realize Part One is in present tense and this is in past, but I didn't have time to go back and change the other part because deadline, eep. Also un-betaed, for the same reason. Maybe one day I'll finish it...
The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, post Season 7.
Crossover: with Sherlock BBC
Words: 1065
IV
Willow held the front page of the London Times so the others could see. "Police Baffled By Serial Killings," the headline read. Subhead: "Coroner confirms victims' blood partially drained." Her eyes met Buffy's and they stared, wordless.
"NO!" yelled Xander, launching himself from the couch. "No, no, no, no!" He stepped over to Willow and snatched the newspaper from her hands. "It's gotta be--some kind of British thing, like, the English flu, or something that's caused by--tea, or having too stiff an upper lip, or some other stupid, NORMAL event that they're all 'What, what, no need to worry, pip, pip, god DAMN it." He began scanning the page, his shoulders dropping lower and lower until he listed to the side and fell back on the couch, moaning. "Is it us? Are we somehow…cursed? Why, why, why?" He dropped the paper and flung his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Buffy strode forward to scoop up the paper. "Xander, really. Bear up. You're not exactly helping, here."
"That's it!" said Xander, sitting up and pointing at her. "I'm not helping! I'm not! Yeah, after the big old End-of-Sunnydale dealio, well, I'm retired. I'm hanging up my trusty stake and putting down my fists of steel. No more hunting evil for me, no sirree. Just a calm quiet Jolly Old England-type life, watching my cable and eating my oatmeal."
Buffy, ignoring him, was scanning the article. "Hmm, it says here that this is the fifth victim they've found. 'Spokespersons from New Scotland Yard are withholding speculation as to the cause of death, and the motive for these killings.' It's been going on for…whoa, five months. Five months, five victims. Wonder if that means anything." She carried the paper over to the bow window and leaned on the sill as she continued to read. Willow joined her. "There's a picture of--ooh, 'Detective Inspector Lestrade,' he's cute."
"That doesn't MATTER," Xander said moodily. "Why? Because we are NEVER MEETING HIM. Never. No, we are covering our heads, and getting fish and chips, and pretending we don't know anything about why ordinary innocent people would have their blood drained from them."
"Half-drained, though," Buffy said, turning the page and continuing to scan. "Yeah, that's odd, have we ever seen that before?" Willow asked, peering over Buffy's shoulder. "And if it is vampires, why aren't they finishing them off, turning 'em?" She turned toward the her laptop on the ornately-carved desk. "There's something here we don't know."
"I do know one thing, though," Buffy said, dropping the newspaper and heading toward the bedroom. "Find out what you can, but I'm getting Dawn up and then we're getting out into the City. I'm not spending our time in London staring at a screen. And neither are any of you."
Xander groaned again, loudly, but got to his feet.
V
Rupert Giles looked around at the faces staring at him--Sherlock Holmes, avid; Greg, aghast; John Watson, puzzled, yet still friendly--and steeled himself to do some explaining. He'd known in an instant, as soon as Holmes had told him his own life story (well, the last few months, anyway), and seemingly recognized the significance of his signet ring (stupid to wear it, certainly, but it had never outed him like this before, never), that there was no chance of continuing any type of prevarication as to his past or his profession.
And, in truth, he'd also known in that instant that he hadn't wanted to. His need to know, to become involved, to help, still burned hot within him.
So, here it was. Honesty time.
"Is Sherlock right, Giles?" Greg asked, but it was hardly a question--it was in the tone of a man accustomed to hearing six impossible things before breakfast and finding them all to be true by lunchtime, only somewhat broken up by Holmes's loud snort. "Can you shed any light on what these murders are all about?" He shoved his hand through his hair again. "Because if so, it would be brilliant. God knows we need some kind of break in this case, even if it is out of a wild coincidence of a childhood friend in the guise of a California librarian."
Giles found himself grinning at the reminder of Greg's intelligence, and what a surprise that always had been back when he was such a pretty boy. He suddenly felt at once extremely keen but also relaxed, anticipatory, in the zone. So it would seem he was not fated for the quiet life, nor would it be congenial to him. He hitched forward in his chair, adjusted his glasses, and began: "Well, let me tell you about my traveling companions…."
VI
When Mycroft Holmes stepped through the heavy, oak-paneled door into the passageway, Anthea was ready with his umbrella and overcoat. "I rescheduled your afternoon meetings, Sir," she said briskly, "But without foreknowledge of your alternate plans, I was unable to make any arrangements--"
"Yes, my dear, not to worry, everything is in order. I will require you to accompany me--it will be a bit of a drive, and we can make some headway on the Serbian report on the way. However--" and from the way he turned solicitously toward her, she knew something unusual was next-- "I must ask for your indulgence on this occasion, that I will not be giving you any more information on the purpose of this particular trip. It's….for your own safety."
This was a first, and alarming. She found herself uncharacteristically stumbling over her response. "Of course, sir, but, um, well can you at least tell me the destination?" A question she never would have asked had she not felt so off her feet by her boss's strange behavior.
"Well, yes, as it will become obvious to you at some point." He offered a strained smile. "I am visiting an old haunt of mine, a council of sorts, in, of all places, Luton. Why they relocated out there, I'll never know." He shook his head, and rubbed the signet ring on his right hand. "Playing the game of shadows, in the suburbs, really." Perhaps realizing he was saying too much, he grimaced slightly, and moved toward the front door. As Anthea turned to follow him, her eyes narrowed speculatively, and she pulled out her Blackberry and began to type.
The Case of the Half-Drained Vics
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, post Season 7.
Crossover: with Sherlock BBC
Words: 1065
IV
Willow held the front page of the London Times so the others could see. "Police Baffled By Serial Killings," the headline read. Subhead: "Coroner confirms victims' blood partially drained." Her eyes met Buffy's and they stared, wordless.
"NO!" yelled Xander, launching himself from the couch. "No, no, no, no!" He stepped over to Willow and snatched the newspaper from her hands. "It's gotta be--some kind of British thing, like, the English flu, or something that's caused by--tea, or having too stiff an upper lip, or some other stupid, NORMAL event that they're all 'What, what, no need to worry, pip, pip, god DAMN it." He began scanning the page, his shoulders dropping lower and lower until he listed to the side and fell back on the couch, moaning. "Is it us? Are we somehow…cursed? Why, why, why?" He dropped the paper and flung his head back to stare at the ceiling.
Buffy strode forward to scoop up the paper. "Xander, really. Bear up. You're not exactly helping, here."
"That's it!" said Xander, sitting up and pointing at her. "I'm not helping! I'm not! Yeah, after the big old End-of-Sunnydale dealio, well, I'm retired. I'm hanging up my trusty stake and putting down my fists of steel. No more hunting evil for me, no sirree. Just a calm quiet Jolly Old England-type life, watching my cable and eating my oatmeal."
Buffy, ignoring him, was scanning the article. "Hmm, it says here that this is the fifth victim they've found. 'Spokespersons from New Scotland Yard are withholding speculation as to the cause of death, and the motive for these killings.' It's been going on for…whoa, five months. Five months, five victims. Wonder if that means anything." She carried the paper over to the bow window and leaned on the sill as she continued to read. Willow joined her. "There's a picture of--ooh, 'Detective Inspector Lestrade,' he's cute."
"That doesn't MATTER," Xander said moodily. "Why? Because we are NEVER MEETING HIM. Never. No, we are covering our heads, and getting fish and chips, and pretending we don't know anything about why ordinary innocent people would have their blood drained from them."
"Half-drained, though," Buffy said, turning the page and continuing to scan. "Yeah, that's odd, have we ever seen that before?" Willow asked, peering over Buffy's shoulder. "And if it is vampires, why aren't they finishing them off, turning 'em?" She turned toward the her laptop on the ornately-carved desk. "There's something here we don't know."
"I do know one thing, though," Buffy said, dropping the newspaper and heading toward the bedroom. "Find out what you can, but I'm getting Dawn up and then we're getting out into the City. I'm not spending our time in London staring at a screen. And neither are any of you."
Xander groaned again, loudly, but got to his feet.
V
Rupert Giles looked around at the faces staring at him--Sherlock Holmes, avid; Greg, aghast; John Watson, puzzled, yet still friendly--and steeled himself to do some explaining. He'd known in an instant, as soon as Holmes had told him his own life story (well, the last few months, anyway), and seemingly recognized the significance of his signet ring (stupid to wear it, certainly, but it had never outed him like this before, never), that there was no chance of continuing any type of prevarication as to his past or his profession.
And, in truth, he'd also known in that instant that he hadn't wanted to. His need to know, to become involved, to help, still burned hot within him.
So, here it was. Honesty time.
"Is Sherlock right, Giles?" Greg asked, but it was hardly a question--it was in the tone of a man accustomed to hearing six impossible things before breakfast and finding them all to be true by lunchtime, only somewhat broken up by Holmes's loud snort. "Can you shed any light on what these murders are all about?" He shoved his hand through his hair again. "Because if so, it would be brilliant. God knows we need some kind of break in this case, even if it is out of a wild coincidence of a childhood friend in the guise of a California librarian."
Giles found himself grinning at the reminder of Greg's intelligence, and what a surprise that always had been back when he was such a pretty boy. He suddenly felt at once extremely keen but also relaxed, anticipatory, in the zone. So it would seem he was not fated for the quiet life, nor would it be congenial to him. He hitched forward in his chair, adjusted his glasses, and began: "Well, let me tell you about my traveling companions…."
VI
When Mycroft Holmes stepped through the heavy, oak-paneled door into the passageway, Anthea was ready with his umbrella and overcoat. "I rescheduled your afternoon meetings, Sir," she said briskly, "But without foreknowledge of your alternate plans, I was unable to make any arrangements--"
"Yes, my dear, not to worry, everything is in order. I will require you to accompany me--it will be a bit of a drive, and we can make some headway on the Serbian report on the way. However--" and from the way he turned solicitously toward her, she knew something unusual was next-- "I must ask for your indulgence on this occasion, that I will not be giving you any more information on the purpose of this particular trip. It's….for your own safety."
This was a first, and alarming. She found herself uncharacteristically stumbling over her response. "Of course, sir, but, um, well can you at least tell me the destination?" A question she never would have asked had she not felt so off her feet by her boss's strange behavior.
"Well, yes, as it will become obvious to you at some point." He offered a strained smile. "I am visiting an old haunt of mine, a council of sorts, in, of all places, Luton. Why they relocated out there, I'll never know." He shook his head, and rubbed the signet ring on his right hand. "Playing the game of shadows, in the suburbs, really." Perhaps realizing he was saying too much, he grimaced slightly, and moved toward the front door. As Anthea turned to follow him, her eyes narrowed speculatively, and she pulled out her Blackberry and began to type.