Fic: Underland (Sherlock Holmes / Neverwhere), PG-13 (16/17)
Title: Underland
Author: crimson_adder
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes (ACD) / Neverwhere (Gaiman!verse)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing / Characters: Holmes/Watson; Hunter, the marquis de Carabas, Moriarty, the earl, rat speakers, Nineteenth Legion, some Vikings (idek), ghouls and goblins of a certain variety. It's a bit of a shit show, I'll be honest.
Word Count: ~ 2300
Summary: John Watson loses a bet, grants a favour, and finds himself in a world unlike anything he has ever seen before. Except for how it's all the same.
Notes / Warnings: Violence, battle scenes, some gruesomeness, buckets of angst. So this started with my own prompt on shkinkmeme which never got filled, so I decided to do it myself. :D If you see issues with anything, please feel free to tell me.
Epic battle = vry diffikult to write. I tried watching The Two Towers again to get an idea of what I wanted it to look like, but...then I was just watching LotR, and not getting anything done anyway. Much thanks to drace19 for volunteering to beta, but I'm too impatient to actually wait for that, so this isn't actually betaed. >>;
Underland - Part XVI
-
Many of my memories from this battle are a blur. It was not like the Battle of Maiwand, with the desert scorching and deadly all about me and the thunder of gunfire deafening and the slice of cutlasses screeching across my mind.
On this plane there was no heat, no moisture, no sand. In this world there were no rules.
It was more primal than anything I had ever seen. Darker, more animalistic, with the guttural war-cries of the Roman soldiers and the high-pitched shrieking of the rat speakers on our side, and the harsh bellows of enormous, fur clad Viking warriors and the unrecognisable screams of shadowy beasts on theirs, never fully manifested, but lashing out with tentacles and claws from the corners of my vision.
Moriarty's army was larger than ours, but not by an enormous quotient, and I felt hope soar in my heart.
Holmes had been targeted by a man dressed entirely in black, and I had lost sight of him early in the battle. I reassured my self that Holmes was one of the strongest men I knew, especially for someone of his build and stature, and he would be able to handle himself without me, for I was in no position to help him, having been besieged by one of the shadow creatures.
It burbled and wheezed, vaguely reminiscent of the Gap monster I had encountered before. Where it touched me, my skin froze, sharp pinpricks of cold pain shooting through my arms and hands. Though I could never look straight at it, for it would dance out of perception like a half-formed thought, it took the blows of my sword cane with the slick give and sick crunch of a man.
I used all the skills I knew, of war and of street brawls against belligerent criminals, cutting my way through the creatures. Spurts of burning green ooze, shining like emeralds and stinging like wasps, coated my hand and blade, as they squealed their way to the afterlife.
I turned once, and collided directly with the marquis, his dark face shining with sweat and his black eyes smouldering with lust for the fight. He glowed with excitement, his braided hair tied behind him in a long tail, slick slides of blood staining his decorative waistcoat - he had taken off his frock coat and left it somewhere so as to not have it ruined in battle. He grabbed my hips and spun us around once, leaving trails of red on my shirt, and then twirled off with a delighted cackle of laughter.
He used a long, thin, razor sharp blade as if it were an extension of himself. He had never before struck me as someone who would fight, dirty his polished finger nails when there were plenty of other people to delegate that to, but the sheer relish with which he slaughtered the thick-bodied Vikings told me there was more to him than his haughty facade.
Hunter, as expected, lived up to her name, taking down her prey as a lioness tackles and rends a wildebeest limb from limb. She was death in motion, graceful and horrifying. The Lady Tür swirled across the battlefield as if she were dancing a waltz, and her opponents were her partners, regal and poised, even as she used her talent to open the chests of snarling warriors, leaving bloody, pulpy messes, almost unrecognisable even as human in her wake.
The rat speakers darted, slashing and cutting with their knives and swords, sneaking between the lumbering swings of their larger opponents. At the same time, the earl's men - lead by the earl himself, bedecked in armour and full chain mail - fought with surprising dexterity and ferociousness, concentrating their attentions on a tribe of fighters, ghostly pale under films of scum, with lank white hair twisting around their faces like snakes. They wore scraps and rags, like the rat speakers, and wielded bows and spears with viscous delight, but our soldiers stood their ground against the spears and arrows of the enemy.
We were winning. I could feel it.
Then there was a shrieking, piercing scream, the kind that bores through your skull like a drill, ringing out over the roar and clamour of the fight. It was the sound of a terrified woman, amplified by the empty echoes of White City.
Lady Tür was overwhelmed, surrounded by almost a dozen of the pallid creatures, hands clawing and filthy, snagging on her skirts and in her russet hair and dragging red welts across her ivory skin. She struggled, her arms captured and held wide and helpless by her attackers, as they ripped her bodice and tore her flesh.
I turned suddenly to see one of the pale ghost warriors faces inches from my own. I could not restrain a cry of horror, for it was as a skull come to life, out of my very nightmares. Hollow eye sockets around glowing, bulbous eyes, and a black mouth lined with shark-like teeth opened to bite into the muscle of my shoulder.
There was a thunderclap of gunfire, and the thing fell away from me, spattering blood on my neck and cheek, and I saw Holmes beyond, having stopped dead in his fight. His revolver was still smoking when he turned away again and resumed his struggle against the black-clad man. He punched and jabbed, using fists and elbows and knees and feet to strike his opponent in the most vital areas.
And it was as if a flip was switched.
All around me men were falling.
The earl received a devastating blow across the face from the blade of a Viking, and collapsed with a roar of agony.
Rat speakers were trampled and broken beneath boots and knives and arrows.
Romans, sweaty and bloodstained, grew haggard and exhausted from the constant onslaught.
The marquis was no longer laughing through his bloody teeth, but limping badly and holding his right side in pain.
So many of the earl's men lay scattered and limp, torn to shreds.
The black-clad man rushed Holmes as a rugby player does, shoulder down and aimed right for Holmes' stomach. They collided in a whirlwind of limbs, too much for me to follow, and fumbled back and -
It is difficult for me to write this. Even now my hand shakes.
With a scream of terror, Lady Tür wrenched the fabric of reality open, and there was a noise as of a vacuum, followed by the pounding and rushing sound of an enormous body of water. In the middle of space, all around her, the air ripped and her attackers tumbled through, drawn in by irresistible forces. It was dark, so dark within that gaping hole, a nightmare realm so different from the white-washed world we stood in.
The tear was mending, now that her assailants were gone, and it was at this time that Holmes took the wrong step, or Moriarty took the right one, and they fell.
They fell through the door and I could do nothing to stop it.
I threw my self across the battlefield, and grabbed Lady Tür by the shoulders. I had enough presence of mind to ensure she knew my identity before I laid hands on her, but the door was closed, the crack was sealed, and I had no idea if Holmes was dead or not.
"Open it! Open it again! I need you to open it!"
She could barely breathe, her lustrous curls spilling loose over her scratched shoulders and tears running tracks down pale cheeks, but I could spare her no thoughts, for Holmes was gone, he was gone and if she didn't open the rip back up I have no notion of what I would have done.
It seemed an eternity, but she gasped in a deep breath and the world shifted around me and we moved through space and time and came out on a dark rocky outcropping over a deafening waterfall.
"Holmes!" I cried, stumbling over the slick wetness of the rocks. "Holmes!"
It may have been my imagination, or perhaps I did hear him over the roar of water, but something rang in my ears and in my mind and I nearly threw my self over the cliff in my haste to reach the edge. A heavy, fully moon hung in the sky, the only source of light to see by, but it was enough.
He was alive. He was still alive. All I could see of him were long, pale fingers clutching the rock for dear life, sliding ever so subtly down. I flung out my hand and grabbed his wrist, wet and slippery. His head jolted back and through a trail of blood from a long wound at his hairline, he smiled in elation at me.
But he shook his head, and his smile turned down. Leave me he said, but I could hear no words. You can't save me, leave me.
"No, Holmes, I won't! I won't leave you! Come now, grasp my hand, I can - I can pull you up!" His hands were cold and dripping, and I could not maintain my grip for long. "Holmes, take my hands!"
No, Watson, he shouted, and I almost heard the desperation that flooded his eyes. They shone silver and blue in the cold light, and he seemed ethereal like never before. John, he said, John you must go.
There was so much panic squeezing my chest in a vice grip that I did not notice the tears on my face until I had to gasp for breath and it burst from me in a sob.
If I had not come, could he have managed to climb up himself? Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, I could only assume he had fallen into the depths of the waterfall, but Holmes had always tried to shield me from the most hopeless situations. It was possible that he did not wish me to see him try and struggle to scale the sheer rock face, especially if he were to fail, for the hope and possibility of it would surely shatter my heart far more than if I had come and he were gone.
His eyes, so beautiful, so loved, were so determined and emphatic that he needed no words. He would not let me pull him up. Already my weak shoulder was beginning to protest the weight.
I was almost given over to despair and defeat, when a solid form landed beside me and reached out as well. Never once stopping, the marquis gripped Holmes' hands and began to haul him up, hand over hand, not even considering slowing to let Holmes try and resist.
Dazed, for a moment, and then I too reacted, and began to pull as well, and together the marquis and I dragged Holmes up and over the edge of the cliff, until we collapsed into a panting heap, breathless from exertion and exhilaration.
Holmes' cheeks were wet and cold and his hair was dripping water, but still I pulled his lips to mine and thrust my tongue in his mouth and forgot the need to breathe for the sake of reminding my self that he was still alive and still with me. His mouth was hot, burning almost, and he gasped and choked, and then kissed me back with the ferocity that comes with surviving.
When I needed to draw back for air, I clutched his head to my chest and ran my fingers through his hair.
The marquis lay flat on his back, wheezing through undoubtedly broken ribs, and watching me from the corner of his eye. I leaned forwards, cupping his smooth cheek, and laid my lips over his as well.
Though I do not believe I felt the same passion I had with Holmes, the spice of the marquis' breath and the shock that froze his tongue beneath mine made me moan into his mouth. It was a thank you - for everything, for saving Holmes, for saving me, for letting me go. My mouth opened wide around his slick tongue and I sucked it into my mouth with a groan, raking my teeth against it gently to pull a rumble that I could not hear, even so close, from the base of his chest.
I let my lips linger as I pulled back, for we would have no other kisses.
There was a look of wonder in his eyes, one I could barely see in the dim light, and I laughed.
I laughed because we were alive.
Lady Tür was waiting for us, crouched in the cold, her pale arms wrapped around her knees, and her skin glowing in the moonlight. She was a magnificent woman, made to be seen by the silver light of the moon, whereas Hunter was the glory of the sun.
She looked up, her opalescent eyes flashing and enormous, and stood as we approached again. I pressed my hand to her head, smoothing back her curls, and realised for the first time that she was barely in her twenties - so young, and yet so fierce.
She awarded me with a shaking smile, but had regained her courage in the time we spent in this alternate place, and opened the door back to White City with ease.
There was silence on the other side, and I felt terror in my gut that everyone had been killed.
But no such thing had occurred. When Moriarty had vanished, his forces had fallen beneath us, and our troops - our rag tag group of urchins - stood in uneasy triumph, as if waiting for the second blow to fall.
Hunter, upon seeing us again, drenched head to heel in blood - human and other - gave a shrieking war cry that carried throughout the empty space of White City, until every man and woman had picked it up, throwing their heads back and baying our victory to the heavens.
We had won.
-
| Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X |
| Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV || Part XVI || Part XVII<'a> |
Author: crimson_adder
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes (ACD) / Neverwhere (Gaiman!verse)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing / Characters: Holmes/Watson; Hunter, the marquis de Carabas, Moriarty, the earl, rat speakers, Nineteenth Legion, some Vikings (idek), ghouls and goblins of a certain variety. It's a bit of a shit show, I'll be honest.
Word Count: ~ 2300
Summary: John Watson loses a bet, grants a favour, and finds himself in a world unlike anything he has ever seen before. Except for how it's all the same.
Notes / Warnings: Violence, battle scenes, some gruesomeness, buckets of angst. So this started with my own prompt on shkinkmeme which never got filled, so I decided to do it myself. :D If you see issues with anything, please feel free to tell me.
Epic battle = vry diffikult to write. I tried watching The Two Towers again to get an idea of what I wanted it to look like, but...then I was just watching LotR, and not getting anything done anyway. Much thanks to drace19 for volunteering to beta, but I'm too impatient to actually wait for that, so this isn't actually betaed. >>;
Underland - Part XVI
-
Many of my memories from this battle are a blur. It was not like the Battle of Maiwand, with the desert scorching and deadly all about me and the thunder of gunfire deafening and the slice of cutlasses screeching across my mind.
On this plane there was no heat, no moisture, no sand. In this world there were no rules.
It was more primal than anything I had ever seen. Darker, more animalistic, with the guttural war-cries of the Roman soldiers and the high-pitched shrieking of the rat speakers on our side, and the harsh bellows of enormous, fur clad Viking warriors and the unrecognisable screams of shadowy beasts on theirs, never fully manifested, but lashing out with tentacles and claws from the corners of my vision.
Moriarty's army was larger than ours, but not by an enormous quotient, and I felt hope soar in my heart.
Holmes had been targeted by a man dressed entirely in black, and I had lost sight of him early in the battle. I reassured my self that Holmes was one of the strongest men I knew, especially for someone of his build and stature, and he would be able to handle himself without me, for I was in no position to help him, having been besieged by one of the shadow creatures.
It burbled and wheezed, vaguely reminiscent of the Gap monster I had encountered before. Where it touched me, my skin froze, sharp pinpricks of cold pain shooting through my arms and hands. Though I could never look straight at it, for it would dance out of perception like a half-formed thought, it took the blows of my sword cane with the slick give and sick crunch of a man.
I used all the skills I knew, of war and of street brawls against belligerent criminals, cutting my way through the creatures. Spurts of burning green ooze, shining like emeralds and stinging like wasps, coated my hand and blade, as they squealed their way to the afterlife.
I turned once, and collided directly with the marquis, his dark face shining with sweat and his black eyes smouldering with lust for the fight. He glowed with excitement, his braided hair tied behind him in a long tail, slick slides of blood staining his decorative waistcoat - he had taken off his frock coat and left it somewhere so as to not have it ruined in battle. He grabbed my hips and spun us around once, leaving trails of red on my shirt, and then twirled off with a delighted cackle of laughter.
He used a long, thin, razor sharp blade as if it were an extension of himself. He had never before struck me as someone who would fight, dirty his polished finger nails when there were plenty of other people to delegate that to, but the sheer relish with which he slaughtered the thick-bodied Vikings told me there was more to him than his haughty facade.
Hunter, as expected, lived up to her name, taking down her prey as a lioness tackles and rends a wildebeest limb from limb. She was death in motion, graceful and horrifying. The Lady Tür swirled across the battlefield as if she were dancing a waltz, and her opponents were her partners, regal and poised, even as she used her talent to open the chests of snarling warriors, leaving bloody, pulpy messes, almost unrecognisable even as human in her wake.
The rat speakers darted, slashing and cutting with their knives and swords, sneaking between the lumbering swings of their larger opponents. At the same time, the earl's men - lead by the earl himself, bedecked in armour and full chain mail - fought with surprising dexterity and ferociousness, concentrating their attentions on a tribe of fighters, ghostly pale under films of scum, with lank white hair twisting around their faces like snakes. They wore scraps and rags, like the rat speakers, and wielded bows and spears with viscous delight, but our soldiers stood their ground against the spears and arrows of the enemy.
We were winning. I could feel it.
Then there was a shrieking, piercing scream, the kind that bores through your skull like a drill, ringing out over the roar and clamour of the fight. It was the sound of a terrified woman, amplified by the empty echoes of White City.
Lady Tür was overwhelmed, surrounded by almost a dozen of the pallid creatures, hands clawing and filthy, snagging on her skirts and in her russet hair and dragging red welts across her ivory skin. She struggled, her arms captured and held wide and helpless by her attackers, as they ripped her bodice and tore her flesh.
I turned suddenly to see one of the pale ghost warriors faces inches from my own. I could not restrain a cry of horror, for it was as a skull come to life, out of my very nightmares. Hollow eye sockets around glowing, bulbous eyes, and a black mouth lined with shark-like teeth opened to bite into the muscle of my shoulder.
There was a thunderclap of gunfire, and the thing fell away from me, spattering blood on my neck and cheek, and I saw Holmes beyond, having stopped dead in his fight. His revolver was still smoking when he turned away again and resumed his struggle against the black-clad man. He punched and jabbed, using fists and elbows and knees and feet to strike his opponent in the most vital areas.
And it was as if a flip was switched.
All around me men were falling.
The earl received a devastating blow across the face from the blade of a Viking, and collapsed with a roar of agony.
Rat speakers were trampled and broken beneath boots and knives and arrows.
Romans, sweaty and bloodstained, grew haggard and exhausted from the constant onslaught.
The marquis was no longer laughing through his bloody teeth, but limping badly and holding his right side in pain.
So many of the earl's men lay scattered and limp, torn to shreds.
The black-clad man rushed Holmes as a rugby player does, shoulder down and aimed right for Holmes' stomach. They collided in a whirlwind of limbs, too much for me to follow, and fumbled back and -
It is difficult for me to write this. Even now my hand shakes.
With a scream of terror, Lady Tür wrenched the fabric of reality open, and there was a noise as of a vacuum, followed by the pounding and rushing sound of an enormous body of water. In the middle of space, all around her, the air ripped and her attackers tumbled through, drawn in by irresistible forces. It was dark, so dark within that gaping hole, a nightmare realm so different from the white-washed world we stood in.
The tear was mending, now that her assailants were gone, and it was at this time that Holmes took the wrong step, or Moriarty took the right one, and they fell.
They fell through the door and I could do nothing to stop it.
I threw my self across the battlefield, and grabbed Lady Tür by the shoulders. I had enough presence of mind to ensure she knew my identity before I laid hands on her, but the door was closed, the crack was sealed, and I had no idea if Holmes was dead or not.
"Open it! Open it again! I need you to open it!"
She could barely breathe, her lustrous curls spilling loose over her scratched shoulders and tears running tracks down pale cheeks, but I could spare her no thoughts, for Holmes was gone, he was gone and if she didn't open the rip back up I have no notion of what I would have done.
It seemed an eternity, but she gasped in a deep breath and the world shifted around me and we moved through space and time and came out on a dark rocky outcropping over a deafening waterfall.
"Holmes!" I cried, stumbling over the slick wetness of the rocks. "Holmes!"
It may have been my imagination, or perhaps I did hear him over the roar of water, but something rang in my ears and in my mind and I nearly threw my self over the cliff in my haste to reach the edge. A heavy, fully moon hung in the sky, the only source of light to see by, but it was enough.
He was alive. He was still alive. All I could see of him were long, pale fingers clutching the rock for dear life, sliding ever so subtly down. I flung out my hand and grabbed his wrist, wet and slippery. His head jolted back and through a trail of blood from a long wound at his hairline, he smiled in elation at me.
But he shook his head, and his smile turned down. Leave me he said, but I could hear no words. You can't save me, leave me.
"No, Holmes, I won't! I won't leave you! Come now, grasp my hand, I can - I can pull you up!" His hands were cold and dripping, and I could not maintain my grip for long. "Holmes, take my hands!"
No, Watson, he shouted, and I almost heard the desperation that flooded his eyes. They shone silver and blue in the cold light, and he seemed ethereal like never before. John, he said, John you must go.
There was so much panic squeezing my chest in a vice grip that I did not notice the tears on my face until I had to gasp for breath and it burst from me in a sob.
If I had not come, could he have managed to climb up himself? Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, I could only assume he had fallen into the depths of the waterfall, but Holmes had always tried to shield me from the most hopeless situations. It was possible that he did not wish me to see him try and struggle to scale the sheer rock face, especially if he were to fail, for the hope and possibility of it would surely shatter my heart far more than if I had come and he were gone.
His eyes, so beautiful, so loved, were so determined and emphatic that he needed no words. He would not let me pull him up. Already my weak shoulder was beginning to protest the weight.
I was almost given over to despair and defeat, when a solid form landed beside me and reached out as well. Never once stopping, the marquis gripped Holmes' hands and began to haul him up, hand over hand, not even considering slowing to let Holmes try and resist.
Dazed, for a moment, and then I too reacted, and began to pull as well, and together the marquis and I dragged Holmes up and over the edge of the cliff, until we collapsed into a panting heap, breathless from exertion and exhilaration.
Holmes' cheeks were wet and cold and his hair was dripping water, but still I pulled his lips to mine and thrust my tongue in his mouth and forgot the need to breathe for the sake of reminding my self that he was still alive and still with me. His mouth was hot, burning almost, and he gasped and choked, and then kissed me back with the ferocity that comes with surviving.
When I needed to draw back for air, I clutched his head to my chest and ran my fingers through his hair.
The marquis lay flat on his back, wheezing through undoubtedly broken ribs, and watching me from the corner of his eye. I leaned forwards, cupping his smooth cheek, and laid my lips over his as well.
Though I do not believe I felt the same passion I had with Holmes, the spice of the marquis' breath and the shock that froze his tongue beneath mine made me moan into his mouth. It was a thank you - for everything, for saving Holmes, for saving me, for letting me go. My mouth opened wide around his slick tongue and I sucked it into my mouth with a groan, raking my teeth against it gently to pull a rumble that I could not hear, even so close, from the base of his chest.
I let my lips linger as I pulled back, for we would have no other kisses.
There was a look of wonder in his eyes, one I could barely see in the dim light, and I laughed.
I laughed because we were alive.
Lady Tür was waiting for us, crouched in the cold, her pale arms wrapped around her knees, and her skin glowing in the moonlight. She was a magnificent woman, made to be seen by the silver light of the moon, whereas Hunter was the glory of the sun.
She looked up, her opalescent eyes flashing and enormous, and stood as we approached again. I pressed my hand to her head, smoothing back her curls, and realised for the first time that she was barely in her twenties - so young, and yet so fierce.
She awarded me with a shaking smile, but had regained her courage in the time we spent in this alternate place, and opened the door back to White City with ease.
There was silence on the other side, and I felt terror in my gut that everyone had been killed.
But no such thing had occurred. When Moriarty had vanished, his forces had fallen beneath us, and our troops - our rag tag group of urchins - stood in uneasy triumph, as if waiting for the second blow to fall.
Hunter, upon seeing us again, drenched head to heel in blood - human and other - gave a shrieking war cry that carried throughout the empty space of White City, until every man and woman had picked it up, throwing their heads back and baying our victory to the heavens.
We had won.
-
| Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X |
| Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV || Part XVI || Part XVII<'a> |