Universally Monstrous - The Wolf Man
Oct. 21st, 2020 01:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: As much as it pained her to admit, the reason Molly Hooper had been anticipating the current edition of The Strand was because of Doctor Watson’s latest venture in heavily embellished storytelling. Normally, she would hardly deign to give the tales of Holmes’ fantastical detective work a passing glance, but something about The Hound of the Baskervilles drew her interest.
Rating: T
A/N - I started the Universally Monstrous series during 2018’s Sherlolly Halloween, but I’ve only managed to finish six so far. Let’s see if I can get the other three done for 2020 Sherlolly Halloween.
I am aware that “The Hound of the Baskervilles” was originally serialized in The Strand Magazine in late 1901 to early 1902. TAB does mention “the dog one”, but it does it at the wrong point in the timeline for my needs. Basically, I want to use “The Hound of the Baskervilles” for my own nefarious purposes; so screw real life and show canon, I do what I want.
Universally Monstrous - The Wolf Man
As much as it pained her to admit, the reason Molly Hooper had been anticipating the current edition of The Strand was because of Doctor Watson’s latest venture in heavily embellished storytelling. Normally, she would hardly deign to give the tales of Holmes’ fantastical detective work a passing glance, but something about The Hound of the Baskervilles drew her interest.
Perhaps it was because she could remember how haggard Holmes had appeared the only time she’d seen him in the last six months. It would have been just after he and Watson returned from the Moors. The normally immaculate gentleman hadn’t taken the time to comb back his hair, and his trousers were wrinkled in such a way as to suggest they’d been slept in. There had been dark circles below his eyes, which were themselves dull. The edge of a bandage was just visible below the cuff of his sleeve. More than once, she had seen him draw in a sharp breath and sway on his feet out of the corner of her eye. Yet, whatever was wrong with him physically, Holmes had retained his sharp mind and sharper tongue. He’d barked out observations in rapid fire, face hovering just above the victim’s body as he catalogued every detail. She thought she’d seen a flash of bewilderment in his expression as his nostrils flared, breathing in whatever subtle aroma he’d detected. Then he straightened, told Inspector Lestrade he’d gotten what he needed, abruptly turned heel without another word, and walked out.
From the little bits of information Lestrade had let drop, Holmes had not left Baker Street for two months after that. Inspector Lestrade told her Holmes had been the victim of an animal attack while he’d been in the country; a large dog or wolf, possibly even the Hound of Watson’s story. He suspected Holmes had been injured far worse than he’d admitted to, and had been forced to only take cases that could be solved from the comfort of his rooms while he recovered.
It was possible, she had conceded.
Then, at a point some three and a half months after Holmes had last graced her morgue, Lestrade had rushed in with a notebook full of questions about a victim’s body. Questions that had clearly been hastily scribbled by another hand.
“Holmes?” she’d asked as she’d prepared the body for the Inspector. “I’m surprised he trusts either of us to work without his direct supervision.”
Lestrade had grinned in response. “It was this or shadowing Inspector Dimmock as he questioned the grieving widow. He settled for the widow, but if there had been a way to manage both, he would have found it.”
“Finally left his rooms, then?” Molly cursed the burst of curiosity that had driven her to ask.
“Oddest thing. He’d sent a note asking—demanding—me to come to Baker Street. When I arrived, it was to see that our old, familiar Holmes had returned. Gone was any sign of the illness that had plagued him. His face was full of colour once more, and he was pacing the room like a caged animal waiting for a chance to escape.”
Even though no news of a relapse had met her ears, she’d yet to see the man himself since.
She wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or anxious about his continued absence.
Since he’d discovered her secret over a year ago, Molly had been waiting. Waiting for … something. Anything.
Unexpectedly, he hadn’t reported her to the authorities for daring to impersonate a man. She had considered that he might be waiting to use his knowledge in an attempt to coerce favours from her. What favours those might be, she’d refused to spend more than a moment contemplating.
Yet Holmes had done nothing of the sort. He’d not mentioned a single word on the matter, treating her in the exact same manner with which he had done since they were first introduced. Just enough of a respectful tone to keep from being banished from the morgue. He’d even agreed with her assessment of a wound’s origin over the erroneous assumption of Watson.
That had been … unexpected. But not, Molly realized, completely out of character. She could remember at least two occasions where he’d done the same prior to the reveal of her deception.
Molly settled at her desk and opened The Strand, fully prepared to spend the next half hour eating her lunch and reading of Sir Henry Baskerville and his family curse.
She’d barely begun when someone rapped their knuckles against her closed office door.
“Sir,” Anderson called, “Inspector Lestrade is here.” His voice lowered until it was barely audible. “Holmes is with him.”
Molly dropped the magazine onto her desk and sprung to her feet with more eagerness than she was comfortable acknowledging. She straightened her waistcoat and set her jaw before leaving to meet the interlopers to her basement domain.
Holmes’ head snapped toward her the moment she stepped out of the office, almost as if he sensed her presence.
It was difficult to believe that the man standing next to the corpse that had been brought in early that morning was the same man who had been in her morgue so many months ago.
His spine was straight, hands tucked together behind his back. He was meticulously groomed as per the Holmes she was used to seeing, but there was something odd about his appearance.
Somehow, he looked bigger than she remembered. Taller. Broader. More intense. More … just more.
Watson cleared his throat and Molly realized she’d been staring at Holmes. And he had been watching her just as intently.
She forced herself to look away.
“Detective. Doctor. Holmes.” She acknowledged each of the waiting gentlemen in turn.
If Lestrade and Watson returned her greeting, she didn’t notice. All she could register was the way that Holmes said her last name; deep and rough, almost intimate.
This time it was he who broke eye contact first, quickly turning toward the corpse with the faintest hint of colour blooming high on his cheekbones.
Lestrade might have been oblivious to the strange interaction, but Watson’s smirk told her that he’d seen. She fervently hoped he would not choose to make note of it in one of his stories.
The inquiry itself didn’t take long, a quarter of an hour at most. Lestrade had a few questions, Holmes had quite a few more, and Watson chimed in with one of his own. In the end, all three men seemed satisfied.
“I suppose that’s settled,” Lestrade sighed with content smile. “Nothing left but to bring Nicholson in.” He echoed Watson’s “Good day, Doctor” as they both moved toward the exit. They seemed to realize Holmes hadn’t joined them at the same time.
“Coming, Holmes?” Watson asked.
“Not yet. I’ve discovered an anomaly.”
Lestrade frowned. “About the case? Do you have doubts about Nicholson?”
“Definitely not, he’s your murderer. And a sloppy one, at that. Present the evidence and he’ll collapse like a house of cards.” Holmes waved the other two away. “No, this is something else entirely. A puzzle I need to solve, and I’m afraid I require Doctor Hooper’s assistance to discover the missing piece.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. Holmes rarely, if ever, addressed her by her title.
Watson began to say something and Holmes cut him off with a vehement, “No. It must be Hooper.” He softened his tone slightly in appeasement, “I’m sure your wife will be pleased to see you in time for supper tonight. Come to Baker Street in the morning and we can discuss the latest inquiries into my services.”
“If you’re sure,” Watson tried once more.
“I am.”
Molly managed to contain her curiosity until the other two men had left. “What was that about?”
He glanced toward Anderson, who was making a poor job at pretending not to eavesdrop as he gathered his things to leave for the night.
“Would you prefer to discuss the matter in my office?” Molly huffed, already regretting her offer before the words were fully formed.
Holmes hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
Molly lead him to the small room. She made sure to close the door in case Anderson decided to take his time leaving. “I'll ask again, what is this about, Holmes?”
He closed his eyes, leaned closer, and aggressively sniffed the air; almost as if he were a beast scenting for prey.
She froze, her mind screaming that she should step back and her body insisted she to let him get as close as he wanted. She had the strangest urge to tilt her head and bare her throat. Molly shook it off with difficulty. “What … What are you doing?”
“You smell …”
And just like that, whatever spell she’d been under snapped. Holmes was still as rude as ever. She rolled her eyes. “It’s the chemicals and the dead. Hazard of the job.” As he well knew.
“No.” His eyes opened and Molly’s breath caught in her throat. They were no longer the pale blue she knew (and dreamt of in her weakest moments), but a tawny brown. Almost golden. He leaned impossibly closer until his lips touched her cheek, then ghosted even lower to brush against her neck. Holmes inhaled once more, as if he couldn’t get enough of her scent. “You smell delicious. I want to eat. You. Up.”
Molly shivered, but did not pull away. “You-you shouldn’t-you can’t do this.”
She felt him grin, then the softest scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin of her throat. “Oh, Molly. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging for my bite. And if you’re good, if you beg sweet enough, I’ll give it to you. You’ll be like me, and you’ll love it.”
Rating: T
A/N - I started the Universally Monstrous series during 2018’s Sherlolly Halloween, but I’ve only managed to finish six so far. Let’s see if I can get the other three done for 2020 Sherlolly Halloween.
I am aware that “The Hound of the Baskervilles” was originally serialized in The Strand Magazine in late 1901 to early 1902. TAB does mention “the dog one”, but it does it at the wrong point in the timeline for my needs. Basically, I want to use “The Hound of the Baskervilles” for my own nefarious purposes; so screw real life and show canon, I do what I want.
Universally Monstrous - The Wolf Man
As much as it pained her to admit, the reason Molly Hooper had been anticipating the current edition of The Strand was because of Doctor Watson’s latest venture in heavily embellished storytelling. Normally, she would hardly deign to give the tales of Holmes’ fantastical detective work a passing glance, but something about The Hound of the Baskervilles drew her interest.
Perhaps it was because she could remember how haggard Holmes had appeared the only time she’d seen him in the last six months. It would have been just after he and Watson returned from the Moors. The normally immaculate gentleman hadn’t taken the time to comb back his hair, and his trousers were wrinkled in such a way as to suggest they’d been slept in. There had been dark circles below his eyes, which were themselves dull. The edge of a bandage was just visible below the cuff of his sleeve. More than once, she had seen him draw in a sharp breath and sway on his feet out of the corner of her eye. Yet, whatever was wrong with him physically, Holmes had retained his sharp mind and sharper tongue. He’d barked out observations in rapid fire, face hovering just above the victim’s body as he catalogued every detail. She thought she’d seen a flash of bewilderment in his expression as his nostrils flared, breathing in whatever subtle aroma he’d detected. Then he straightened, told Inspector Lestrade he’d gotten what he needed, abruptly turned heel without another word, and walked out.
From the little bits of information Lestrade had let drop, Holmes had not left Baker Street for two months after that. Inspector Lestrade told her Holmes had been the victim of an animal attack while he’d been in the country; a large dog or wolf, possibly even the Hound of Watson’s story. He suspected Holmes had been injured far worse than he’d admitted to, and had been forced to only take cases that could be solved from the comfort of his rooms while he recovered.
It was possible, she had conceded.
Then, at a point some three and a half months after Holmes had last graced her morgue, Lestrade had rushed in with a notebook full of questions about a victim’s body. Questions that had clearly been hastily scribbled by another hand.
“Holmes?” she’d asked as she’d prepared the body for the Inspector. “I’m surprised he trusts either of us to work without his direct supervision.”
Lestrade had grinned in response. “It was this or shadowing Inspector Dimmock as he questioned the grieving widow. He settled for the widow, but if there had been a way to manage both, he would have found it.”
“Finally left his rooms, then?” Molly cursed the burst of curiosity that had driven her to ask.
“Oddest thing. He’d sent a note asking—demanding—me to come to Baker Street. When I arrived, it was to see that our old, familiar Holmes had returned. Gone was any sign of the illness that had plagued him. His face was full of colour once more, and he was pacing the room like a caged animal waiting for a chance to escape.”
Even though no news of a relapse had met her ears, she’d yet to see the man himself since.
She wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or anxious about his continued absence.
Since he’d discovered her secret over a year ago, Molly had been waiting. Waiting for … something. Anything.
Unexpectedly, he hadn’t reported her to the authorities for daring to impersonate a man. She had considered that he might be waiting to use his knowledge in an attempt to coerce favours from her. What favours those might be, she’d refused to spend more than a moment contemplating.
Yet Holmes had done nothing of the sort. He’d not mentioned a single word on the matter, treating her in the exact same manner with which he had done since they were first introduced. Just enough of a respectful tone to keep from being banished from the morgue. He’d even agreed with her assessment of a wound’s origin over the erroneous assumption of Watson.
That had been … unexpected. But not, Molly realized, completely out of character. She could remember at least two occasions where he’d done the same prior to the reveal of her deception.
Molly settled at her desk and opened The Strand, fully prepared to spend the next half hour eating her lunch and reading of Sir Henry Baskerville and his family curse.
She’d barely begun when someone rapped their knuckles against her closed office door.
“Sir,” Anderson called, “Inspector Lestrade is here.” His voice lowered until it was barely audible. “Holmes is with him.”
Molly dropped the magazine onto her desk and sprung to her feet with more eagerness than she was comfortable acknowledging. She straightened her waistcoat and set her jaw before leaving to meet the interlopers to her basement domain.
Holmes’ head snapped toward her the moment she stepped out of the office, almost as if he sensed her presence.
It was difficult to believe that the man standing next to the corpse that had been brought in early that morning was the same man who had been in her morgue so many months ago.
His spine was straight, hands tucked together behind his back. He was meticulously groomed as per the Holmes she was used to seeing, but there was something odd about his appearance.
Somehow, he looked bigger than she remembered. Taller. Broader. More intense. More … just more.
Watson cleared his throat and Molly realized she’d been staring at Holmes. And he had been watching her just as intently.
She forced herself to look away.
“Detective. Doctor. Holmes.” She acknowledged each of the waiting gentlemen in turn.
If Lestrade and Watson returned her greeting, she didn’t notice. All she could register was the way that Holmes said her last name; deep and rough, almost intimate.
This time it was he who broke eye contact first, quickly turning toward the corpse with the faintest hint of colour blooming high on his cheekbones.
Lestrade might have been oblivious to the strange interaction, but Watson’s smirk told her that he’d seen. She fervently hoped he would not choose to make note of it in one of his stories.
The inquiry itself didn’t take long, a quarter of an hour at most. Lestrade had a few questions, Holmes had quite a few more, and Watson chimed in with one of his own. In the end, all three men seemed satisfied.
“I suppose that’s settled,” Lestrade sighed with content smile. “Nothing left but to bring Nicholson in.” He echoed Watson’s “Good day, Doctor” as they both moved toward the exit. They seemed to realize Holmes hadn’t joined them at the same time.
“Coming, Holmes?” Watson asked.
“Not yet. I’ve discovered an anomaly.”
Lestrade frowned. “About the case? Do you have doubts about Nicholson?”
“Definitely not, he’s your murderer. And a sloppy one, at that. Present the evidence and he’ll collapse like a house of cards.” Holmes waved the other two away. “No, this is something else entirely. A puzzle I need to solve, and I’m afraid I require Doctor Hooper’s assistance to discover the missing piece.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. Holmes rarely, if ever, addressed her by her title.
Watson began to say something and Holmes cut him off with a vehement, “No. It must be Hooper.” He softened his tone slightly in appeasement, “I’m sure your wife will be pleased to see you in time for supper tonight. Come to Baker Street in the morning and we can discuss the latest inquiries into my services.”
“If you’re sure,” Watson tried once more.
“I am.”
Molly managed to contain her curiosity until the other two men had left. “What was that about?”
He glanced toward Anderson, who was making a poor job at pretending not to eavesdrop as he gathered his things to leave for the night.
“Would you prefer to discuss the matter in my office?” Molly huffed, already regretting her offer before the words were fully formed.
Holmes hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
Molly lead him to the small room. She made sure to close the door in case Anderson decided to take his time leaving. “I'll ask again, what is this about, Holmes?”
He closed his eyes, leaned closer, and aggressively sniffed the air; almost as if he were a beast scenting for prey.
She froze, her mind screaming that she should step back and her body insisted she to let him get as close as he wanted. She had the strangest urge to tilt her head and bare her throat. Molly shook it off with difficulty. “What … What are you doing?”
“You smell …”
And just like that, whatever spell she’d been under snapped. Holmes was still as rude as ever. She rolled her eyes. “It’s the chemicals and the dead. Hazard of the job.” As he well knew.
“No.” His eyes opened and Molly’s breath caught in her throat. They were no longer the pale blue she knew (and dreamt of in her weakest moments), but a tawny brown. Almost golden. He leaned impossibly closer until his lips touched her cheek, then ghosted even lower to brush against her neck. Holmes inhaled once more, as if he couldn’t get enough of her scent. “You smell delicious. I want to eat. You. Up.”
Molly shivered, but did not pull away. “You-you shouldn’t-you can’t do this.”
She felt him grin, then the softest scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin of her throat. “Oh, Molly. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging for my bite. And if you’re good, if you beg sweet enough, I’ll give it to you. You’ll be like me, and you’ll love it.”