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darnedchild) wrote2020-10-28 10:59 am
darnedchild) wrote2020-10-28 10:59 am
Universally Monstrous - The Bride of Frankenstein
Summary: To his chagrin, it took Doctor Matthew Hooper more than a dozen interactions before he realized that the notorious Sherlock Holmes was not the man he pretended to be.
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t a man at all.
Rating: T
A/N - I started the Universally Monstrous series during 2018’s Sherlolly Halloween. I'm proud to say that all nine fics in the series have now been completed!
I’m going to try something new for me. Gender swapping! Say hello to TAB era Matthew Hooper and Williamina Scott (AKA Sherlock Holmes). Fingers crossed this works.
I should probably mention a warning for major character death. Sorry.
Universally Monstrous - The Bride of Frankenstein
To his chagrin, it took Doctor Matthew Hooper more than a dozen interactions before he realized that the notorious Sherlock Holmes was not the man he pretended to be.
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t a man at all.
Usually, Holmes would enter the morgue wrapped in a large peacoat with the collar flipped up and his infamous hat pulled low upon his forehead, so that his thin nose and sharp cheekbones were the features that drew the casual observer’s eye.
On this occasion, however, when Detective Lestrade escorted Holmes into the catacombs beneath St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, the hat and coat were missing; most likely a consequence of the rare heat wave that was currently sweeping through London.
For the first time, Matthew had an unobstructed few of Holmes’ face, including doe eyes of the brightest blue. Eyes that he found himself instantly drawn to.
It was a startling feeling. He’d never found himself the least bit attracted to a man before.
Then Holmes turned his head and a dark brown curl slipped free from the confines of a perfectly crafted hairpiece.
The hair, the eyes, the soft lips … Sherlock Holmes was a woman.
Matthew’s gaze flicked toward Lestrade to see if he had noticed anything amiss. Either the other man was dreadfully unobservant, which seemed unlikely considering his profession, or Lestrade was already aware of Holmes’ deception.
By the time his attention returned to Holmes, the errant curl had been tucked away and he—she—was watching him with the same intensity he’d only seen when she focused on a case.
“I need to see the Green woman,” Lestrade ordered, as if he were expecting Matthew to deny his request.
Matthew automatically bristled at the tone. “You? Or Holmes?”
Her newly revealed gender did nothing to dull his resentment at being forced to allow Holmes’ presence in the morgue.
Lestrade gave him an admonishing look, which only served to antagonize him further. Still, Lestrade was a representative of the law.
Matthew turned his head just enough to bark instructions at the morgue assistant. “Anderson, move Mrs Green to my roster. I’ll be doing her post-mortem myself.”
“Shall I prep the body?”
“I said I would do it myself,” Matthew snapped. “You are not to touch her under any circumstances. Is that understood?”
Anderson ducked his head at the rebuke. The man was competent enough; but when someone from New Scotland Yard had an interest in a particular corpse, Matthew preferred to handle the body himself. Especially when Holmes was involved.
That matter settled, he returned his attention to Holmes and Lestrade. He pulled his pocket watch free and checked the time. “Come back at a quarter to six. No sooner, no later.”
Holmes tensed as if she were about to protest, but didn’t get a chance to utter a word as Matthew continued to speak.
“There are other poor souls here whose families have been waiting for peace of mind for longer than your Mrs Green. I’ll not delay their resolution solely because you find them of no interest. The work day ends at five, but I am willing to remain behind to assist you afterhours. Or, if you find that too inconvenient, you can return tomorrow afternoon. Or perhaps the day after.”
Holmes bit her tongue and jerked her head to consent to his conditions.
“Right then, quarter to six,” Lestrade confirmed.
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Mrs Green’s autopsy took over an hour; but in the end, Lestrade and Holmes were satisfied with the results.
The two discussed Holmes’ theory while Matthew cleaned up. It was job that would normally be dealt with by one of the morgue assistants, but Anderson had already left for the day. He’d just finished stripping off his apron and sleeves when Lestrade departed, leaving Holmes behind. Matthew tossed the articles of clothing into the bin that would be taken to the hospital laundry in the morning, and moved on to the sink.
Holmes waited in silence until he’d scrubbed his hands and lower arms clean. “You know.” It wasn’t a question.
She could only be talking about one thing. “I do.”
“Yet you haven’t reported me. Why not?” For the first time in their acquaintance, he thought he detected a note of fear in her voice.
He saw no reason to lie. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded; as if his answer was enough to reassure her. “Thank you.” She turned to leave without another word.
Matthew let her go several steps, then was struck with an overwhelming surge of curiosity. “Holmes. Is Sherlock really the name you were born with?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s Williamina. Williamina Scott.”
“Holmes’ niece?” He’d never had the pleasure of meeting the woman; but he had heard tales of the attractive young lady who often took notes when clients visited Baker Street in hopes of speaking to Holmes and ended up pleading their case with Doctor Watson instead. The gossip rags had made speculations about the living situation between Scott, her uncle, and the bachelor Watson up until the point when the former married and moved from Baker Street.
Now that he knew there was no actual Holmes to act as a chaperone, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some truth to the rumours.
As if she knew the direction of his thoughts, Williamina sighed. “Theodore Watson is one of my father’s oldest friends. When Papa realized I would not be deterred from my desire to move to the city to practice my craft under an assumed persona, they insisted Watson join me.” Her lips quirked in amusement. “He was … unenthusiastic at first, being saddled with a stubborn eighteen-year-old girl. I suspect he had fears that our fathers were attempting some sort of matchmaking scheme. I quickly made it clear that I was not agreeable to anything of the kind, that I thought of him as a stern older brother, and that seemed to assuage his concerns.”
She bit her lip, then closed the distance between them with determined steps. “And what of yours?”
“Mine?”
“Do you consider me a fallen woman for living with a man with only an elderly housekeeper as our chaperone?”
Somehow, she had ended up at his side. He should move away for proprieties sake. He did not. “Would it bother you if I did?”
“Perhaps.”
“I have no right to hold you to a higher standard than I, myself, have maintained.”
“You also lived with Watson unchaperoned?” She opened those pretty eyes wide and he realized she was teasing him.
“Something like that.” He smiled. “Ms Scott, would it be too forward of me to ask if I may call upon you this Saturday? I would very much like to escort you to lunch. Assuming your uncle is agreeable.”
Williamina returned his smile with a flirty one of her own. “I think I’ll be able to convince uncle Sherlock to grant his permission. As long as you have me back to Baker Street at a respectable hour.”
“Of course.”
இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—
Their love affair lasted barely a month before the cruel hand of fate intervened.
The shocked whispers somehow reached the morgue before her body did.
Ms Scott, niece of Sherlock Holmes, had been struck down by a carriage. A tragedy, to be sure. But the most scandalous part was that she had been wearing men’s clothes when it happened.
Matthew spent the next hour waiting in perverse anticipation.
Anderson hesitantly suggested that he be the one to handle her post-mortem, but Matthew had vehemently refused.
It made him sick to think any hands but his own would touch his dear Williamina.
She was a broken doll when they eventually bring her in. The carriage wheels and horse’s hooves had shattered bone and torn flesh.
Once she was laid out upon his table, he couldn’t help but reach out and gently push a bloody curl out of her face. She was, indeed, wearing men’s clothes. He recognized the suit as one of Holmes’ favourites. The infamous cap was missing; he suspected it would be recovered from a gutter soon enough.
He tried to ignore her mangled body and concentrate on her miraculously untouched face. She looked so beautiful, even with the blood matted in her hair. Matthew gently tilted her head from side to side, assessing the damage. Mostly superficial cuts, no obvious signs of skull fracture.
“That is a good sign,” whispered a dark voice from the deepest recesses of his mind.
But good for what?
“It would be a crime to let her brilliant mind be lost. Save her. Bring her back.”
The very idea was ludicrous. Unimaginable. An affront to God himself.
“But is it impossible?”
Almost as if summoned, the memory of a paper he’d stumbled across in med school appeared. It had been written by a disgraced student who had been expelled the year prior.
What was his name?
Vanstein?
Fronstein?
Standing alone in the silent catacombs beneath Saint Bartholomew’s, Matthew Hooper whispered the words that forever sealed his fate. “Frankenstein. Baron Von Frankenstein.”
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t a man at all.
Rating: T
A/N - I started the Universally Monstrous series during 2018’s Sherlolly Halloween. I'm proud to say that all nine fics in the series have now been completed!
I’m going to try something new for me. Gender swapping! Say hello to TAB era Matthew Hooper and Williamina Scott (AKA Sherlock Holmes). Fingers crossed this works.
I should probably mention a warning for major character death. Sorry.
Universally Monstrous - The Bride of Frankenstein
To his chagrin, it took Doctor Matthew Hooper more than a dozen interactions before he realized that the notorious Sherlock Holmes was not the man he pretended to be.
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t a man at all.
Usually, Holmes would enter the morgue wrapped in a large peacoat with the collar flipped up and his infamous hat pulled low upon his forehead, so that his thin nose and sharp cheekbones were the features that drew the casual observer’s eye.
On this occasion, however, when Detective Lestrade escorted Holmes into the catacombs beneath St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, the hat and coat were missing; most likely a consequence of the rare heat wave that was currently sweeping through London.
For the first time, Matthew had an unobstructed few of Holmes’ face, including doe eyes of the brightest blue. Eyes that he found himself instantly drawn to.
It was a startling feeling. He’d never found himself the least bit attracted to a man before.
Then Holmes turned his head and a dark brown curl slipped free from the confines of a perfectly crafted hairpiece.
The hair, the eyes, the soft lips … Sherlock Holmes was a woman.
Matthew’s gaze flicked toward Lestrade to see if he had noticed anything amiss. Either the other man was dreadfully unobservant, which seemed unlikely considering his profession, or Lestrade was already aware of Holmes’ deception.
By the time his attention returned to Holmes, the errant curl had been tucked away and he—she—was watching him with the same intensity he’d only seen when she focused on a case.
“I need to see the Green woman,” Lestrade ordered, as if he were expecting Matthew to deny his request.
Matthew automatically bristled at the tone. “You? Or Holmes?”
Her newly revealed gender did nothing to dull his resentment at being forced to allow Holmes’ presence in the morgue.
Lestrade gave him an admonishing look, which only served to antagonize him further. Still, Lestrade was a representative of the law.
Matthew turned his head just enough to bark instructions at the morgue assistant. “Anderson, move Mrs Green to my roster. I’ll be doing her post-mortem myself.”
“Shall I prep the body?”
“I said I would do it myself,” Matthew snapped. “You are not to touch her under any circumstances. Is that understood?”
Anderson ducked his head at the rebuke. The man was competent enough; but when someone from New Scotland Yard had an interest in a particular corpse, Matthew preferred to handle the body himself. Especially when Holmes was involved.
That matter settled, he returned his attention to Holmes and Lestrade. He pulled his pocket watch free and checked the time. “Come back at a quarter to six. No sooner, no later.”
Holmes tensed as if she were about to protest, but didn’t get a chance to utter a word as Matthew continued to speak.
“There are other poor souls here whose families have been waiting for peace of mind for longer than your Mrs Green. I’ll not delay their resolution solely because you find them of no interest. The work day ends at five, but I am willing to remain behind to assist you afterhours. Or, if you find that too inconvenient, you can return tomorrow afternoon. Or perhaps the day after.”
Holmes bit her tongue and jerked her head to consent to his conditions.
“Right then, quarter to six,” Lestrade confirmed.
Mrs Green’s autopsy took over an hour; but in the end, Lestrade and Holmes were satisfied with the results.
The two discussed Holmes’ theory while Matthew cleaned up. It was job that would normally be dealt with by one of the morgue assistants, but Anderson had already left for the day. He’d just finished stripping off his apron and sleeves when Lestrade departed, leaving Holmes behind. Matthew tossed the articles of clothing into the bin that would be taken to the hospital laundry in the morning, and moved on to the sink.
Holmes waited in silence until he’d scrubbed his hands and lower arms clean. “You know.” It wasn’t a question.
She could only be talking about one thing. “I do.”
“Yet you haven’t reported me. Why not?” For the first time in their acquaintance, he thought he detected a note of fear in her voice.
He saw no reason to lie. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded; as if his answer was enough to reassure her. “Thank you.” She turned to leave without another word.
Matthew let her go several steps, then was struck with an overwhelming surge of curiosity. “Holmes. Is Sherlock really the name you were born with?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s Williamina. Williamina Scott.”
“Holmes’ niece?” He’d never had the pleasure of meeting the woman; but he had heard tales of the attractive young lady who often took notes when clients visited Baker Street in hopes of speaking to Holmes and ended up pleading their case with Doctor Watson instead. The gossip rags had made speculations about the living situation between Scott, her uncle, and the bachelor Watson up until the point when the former married and moved from Baker Street.
Now that he knew there was no actual Holmes to act as a chaperone, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some truth to the rumours.
As if she knew the direction of his thoughts, Williamina sighed. “Theodore Watson is one of my father’s oldest friends. When Papa realized I would not be deterred from my desire to move to the city to practice my craft under an assumed persona, they insisted Watson join me.” Her lips quirked in amusement. “He was … unenthusiastic at first, being saddled with a stubborn eighteen-year-old girl. I suspect he had fears that our fathers were attempting some sort of matchmaking scheme. I quickly made it clear that I was not agreeable to anything of the kind, that I thought of him as a stern older brother, and that seemed to assuage his concerns.”
She bit her lip, then closed the distance between them with determined steps. “And what of yours?”
“Mine?”
“Do you consider me a fallen woman for living with a man with only an elderly housekeeper as our chaperone?”
Somehow, she had ended up at his side. He should move away for proprieties sake. He did not. “Would it bother you if I did?”
“Perhaps.”
“I have no right to hold you to a higher standard than I, myself, have maintained.”
“You also lived with Watson unchaperoned?” She opened those pretty eyes wide and he realized she was teasing him.
“Something like that.” He smiled. “Ms Scott, would it be too forward of me to ask if I may call upon you this Saturday? I would very much like to escort you to lunch. Assuming your uncle is agreeable.”
Williamina returned his smile with a flirty one of her own. “I think I’ll be able to convince uncle Sherlock to grant his permission. As long as you have me back to Baker Street at a respectable hour.”
“Of course.”
Their love affair lasted barely a month before the cruel hand of fate intervened.
The shocked whispers somehow reached the morgue before her body did.
Ms Scott, niece of Sherlock Holmes, had been struck down by a carriage. A tragedy, to be sure. But the most scandalous part was that she had been wearing men’s clothes when it happened.
Matthew spent the next hour waiting in perverse anticipation.
Anderson hesitantly suggested that he be the one to handle her post-mortem, but Matthew had vehemently refused.
It made him sick to think any hands but his own would touch his dear Williamina.
She was a broken doll when they eventually bring her in. The carriage wheels and horse’s hooves had shattered bone and torn flesh.
Once she was laid out upon his table, he couldn’t help but reach out and gently push a bloody curl out of her face. She was, indeed, wearing men’s clothes. He recognized the suit as one of Holmes’ favourites. The infamous cap was missing; he suspected it would be recovered from a gutter soon enough.
He tried to ignore her mangled body and concentrate on her miraculously untouched face. She looked so beautiful, even with the blood matted in her hair. Matthew gently tilted her head from side to side, assessing the damage. Mostly superficial cuts, no obvious signs of skull fracture.
“That is a good sign,” whispered a dark voice from the deepest recesses of his mind.
But good for what?
“It would be a crime to let her brilliant mind be lost. Save her. Bring her back.”
The very idea was ludicrous. Unimaginable. An affront to God himself.
“But is it impossible?”
Almost as if summoned, the memory of a paper he’d stumbled across in med school appeared. It had been written by a disgraced student who had been expelled the year prior.
What was his name?
Vanstein?
Fronstein?
Standing alone in the silent catacombs beneath Saint Bartholomew’s, Matthew Hooper whispered the words that forever sealed his fate. “Frankenstein. Baron Von Frankenstein.”