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darnedchildSummary: Bodies that had been found drained of blood are mysteriously disappearing from the morgue. Could it be the work of a vampire? Or is there something even more sinister stalking the dark streets of London?
Rating: M
A/N - Written for the Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration Fest. A Victorian vampire story written in several short chapters.
The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire
Part 2
Hooper was waiting for them when the three men finished their descent into the catacombs beneath St Bartholomew’s.
The chilled air was no colder than usual for the morgue, but Sherlock caught Lestrade shiver and slow his steps as they approached the corpse. He pulled the man aside, a bit away from the others. “You’ve been down here many times and never hesitated before. What is it about this case that unsettles you so? Surely you don’t secretly believe in that vampire nonsense.”
“Of course not,” Lestrade snapped. “It’s only—Are you aware of the date, Holmes?”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he thought back to the morning papers that Mrs Hudson had brought up to his rooms with his tea. The date had been clearly marked on each one. What was it? “October thirty-first. Why is that relevant?”
“It’s All Hallows’ Eve. The day the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest.” Lestrade shifted from foot to foot and refused to make eye contact.
“I thought you didn’t go in for that sort of superstitious rubbish?” Sherlock scoffed.
Judging from the chagrined expression on Lestrade’s face, the other man was well aware of how childish he was behaving. “I don’t. Not really. But consider the day and we’re were standing, man. There is a body under that sheet that is the victim of a monster, be it a man or unearthly beast. Forgive me a moment’s weakness, please.”
With a sharp nod of understanding, Sherlock indicated that they should continue to where the others were standing.
Anderson hovered just behind Hooper’s right shoulder. He kept folding and refolding the same towel, obviously wanting to stay close enough to overhear whatever might be said without attracting Hooper’s wrath. There was another morgue assistant working at the back of the room. Sherlock had spoken to the man once and found him to be only slightly less irritating than Anderson.
Hooper impatiently tapped her fingers against the table next to the covered body as she waited.
Since the night two years ago in that old relic of a church, Sherlock’s relationship—if one could call it that—with Hooper had changed. Their interactions were still brusque, but not as combative. He had deduced that some of Hooper’s earlier hostility toward him had been born of fear of discovery. Once her secret had been revealed there had been a tentative cease fire in the petty squabbling. Still, there were occasions when she made it very clear that his presence in the morgue was unwelcome; but those instances were few and far between, and mostly fuelled by his own impatience and acerbic nature. In the morgue Hooper was king, and she never hesitated to remind him of that fact when he pushed too far.
As long as he made an effort to mind his manners and respect her authority they maintained a civil—by the loosest definition of the word—truce.
Sherlock stepped up to the table and looked down at the shrouded body. “You’ve already begun your examination. Where are his belongings, his clothes? I’ll need to see them.”
From his peripheral vision, he could see her small hand slide from the table to curl into a fist at her side. He raised his head to look at the narrowed eyes glaring back at him and realized his mistake. “Which you had the foresight to consider when they were removed, I’m sure. If you could direct me to them at your convenience, I would be most obliged.”
Hooper’s jaw clenched, but she nodded; a silent acceptance of the closest thing to an apology he would be likely to offer. “I’ve had Whittock prepare a table to give you space to work.” She jerked her head toward the man at the back of the room.
Sherlock nodded. “The body first, I think.”
“Before you begin, if I may turn your attention to three things?” Her hand hesitated over the sheet covering the corpse.
“Of course.” While he normally preferred to make his observations without the influence of another’s opinions, he’d long ago acknowledged that Hooper often had valuable insight to offer.
She pulled the sheet down to the corpse’s waist and lifted his right arm. “Very faint abrasions like this are on all four limbs.”
Sherlock bent closer, then pulled his magnifying glass out of his jacket pocket to examine the marks. “He was restrained. Did you find anything in the abrasions?”
“Several fibres. Whittock has them for you.” She carefully lowered the arm and tucked it back against the body’s side.
“The real features of interest are here.” Before Sherlock could react to the strange inflection in her voice—Was she teasing him?—Hooper flipped the sheet back further, exposing the corpse’s groin and upper legs. She shifted one of its legs to expose the inner thigh. There were a pair of puncture wounds this time rather than just one, spaced closely together. Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s huff of disgust as he sniffed at the wounds, his cheek coming rather close to making contact with the corpse’s genitals.
“Carbolic acid?” He straightened. “Was that one of yours?” He gestured toward Anderson. “Or was it already there?”
Hooper shook her head. “No one other than myself has touched him since he was brought in.”
Watson moved to Sherlock’s side and stared down at the body. “Why would someone go to the trouble to apply antiseptic to a corpse?”
“Because the victim wasn’t a corpse at the time,” Sherlock answered. Hooper nodded in agreement.
“There’s more. Do you see it?”
Both he and Watson leaned closer to the puncture marks.
“The bruising, it’s only around one of the wounds,” Sherlock observed. “Which means the other was-”
“Was made post-mortem,” Watson finished the thought. “But why would someone do that?”
“If I were to hazard a guess,” Hooper began. “And this is coloured by the stories populating the papers of late, is that the second wound was created purely to give the illusion that the victim was bled dry by someone, or something, with a pair of-“
“Fangs.” Sherlock spit out the word as if it had personally offended him.
Hooper nodded again. “Precisely.”
Part 1 / Part 3
Rating: M
A/N - Written for the Halloween at 221B - A Sherlolly Celebration Fest. A Victorian vampire story written in several short chapters.
The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire
Part 2
Hooper was waiting for them when the three men finished their descent into the catacombs beneath St Bartholomew’s.
The chilled air was no colder than usual for the morgue, but Sherlock caught Lestrade shiver and slow his steps as they approached the corpse. He pulled the man aside, a bit away from the others. “You’ve been down here many times and never hesitated before. What is it about this case that unsettles you so? Surely you don’t secretly believe in that vampire nonsense.”
“Of course not,” Lestrade snapped. “It’s only—Are you aware of the date, Holmes?”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he thought back to the morning papers that Mrs Hudson had brought up to his rooms with his tea. The date had been clearly marked on each one. What was it? “October thirty-first. Why is that relevant?”
“It’s All Hallows’ Eve. The day the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest.” Lestrade shifted from foot to foot and refused to make eye contact.
“I thought you didn’t go in for that sort of superstitious rubbish?” Sherlock scoffed.
Judging from the chagrined expression on Lestrade’s face, the other man was well aware of how childish he was behaving. “I don’t. Not really. But consider the day and we’re were standing, man. There is a body under that sheet that is the victim of a monster, be it a man or unearthly beast. Forgive me a moment’s weakness, please.”
With a sharp nod of understanding, Sherlock indicated that they should continue to where the others were standing.
Anderson hovered just behind Hooper’s right shoulder. He kept folding and refolding the same towel, obviously wanting to stay close enough to overhear whatever might be said without attracting Hooper’s wrath. There was another morgue assistant working at the back of the room. Sherlock had spoken to the man once and found him to be only slightly less irritating than Anderson.
Hooper impatiently tapped her fingers against the table next to the covered body as she waited.
Since the night two years ago in that old relic of a church, Sherlock’s relationship—if one could call it that—with Hooper had changed. Their interactions were still brusque, but not as combative. He had deduced that some of Hooper’s earlier hostility toward him had been born of fear of discovery. Once her secret had been revealed there had been a tentative cease fire in the petty squabbling. Still, there were occasions when she made it very clear that his presence in the morgue was unwelcome; but those instances were few and far between, and mostly fuelled by his own impatience and acerbic nature. In the morgue Hooper was king, and she never hesitated to remind him of that fact when he pushed too far.
As long as he made an effort to mind his manners and respect her authority they maintained a civil—by the loosest definition of the word—truce.
Sherlock stepped up to the table and looked down at the shrouded body. “You’ve already begun your examination. Where are his belongings, his clothes? I’ll need to see them.”
From his peripheral vision, he could see her small hand slide from the table to curl into a fist at her side. He raised his head to look at the narrowed eyes glaring back at him and realized his mistake. “Which you had the foresight to consider when they were removed, I’m sure. If you could direct me to them at your convenience, I would be most obliged.”
Hooper’s jaw clenched, but she nodded; a silent acceptance of the closest thing to an apology he would be likely to offer. “I’ve had Whittock prepare a table to give you space to work.” She jerked her head toward the man at the back of the room.
Sherlock nodded. “The body first, I think.”
“Before you begin, if I may turn your attention to three things?” Her hand hesitated over the sheet covering the corpse.
“Of course.” While he normally preferred to make his observations without the influence of another’s opinions, he’d long ago acknowledged that Hooper often had valuable insight to offer.
She pulled the sheet down to the corpse’s waist and lifted his right arm. “Very faint abrasions like this are on all four limbs.”
Sherlock bent closer, then pulled his magnifying glass out of his jacket pocket to examine the marks. “He was restrained. Did you find anything in the abrasions?”
“Several fibres. Whittock has them for you.” She carefully lowered the arm and tucked it back against the body’s side.
“The real features of interest are here.” Before Sherlock could react to the strange inflection in her voice—Was she teasing him?—Hooper flipped the sheet back further, exposing the corpse’s groin and upper legs. She shifted one of its legs to expose the inner thigh. There were a pair of puncture wounds this time rather than just one, spaced closely together. Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s huff of disgust as he sniffed at the wounds, his cheek coming rather close to making contact with the corpse’s genitals.
“Carbolic acid?” He straightened. “Was that one of yours?” He gestured toward Anderson. “Or was it already there?”
Hooper shook her head. “No one other than myself has touched him since he was brought in.”
Watson moved to Sherlock’s side and stared down at the body. “Why would someone go to the trouble to apply antiseptic to a corpse?”
“Because the victim wasn’t a corpse at the time,” Sherlock answered. Hooper nodded in agreement.
“There’s more. Do you see it?”
Both he and Watson leaned closer to the puncture marks.
“The bruising, it’s only around one of the wounds,” Sherlock observed. “Which means the other was-”
“Was made post-mortem,” Watson finished the thought. “But why would someone do that?”
“If I were to hazard a guess,” Hooper began. “And this is coloured by the stories populating the papers of late, is that the second wound was created purely to give the illusion that the victim was bled dry by someone, or something, with a pair of-“
“Fangs.” Sherlock spit out the word as if it had personally offended him.
Hooper nodded again. “Precisely.”
Part 1 / Part 3