DC (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
darnedchild) wrote2016-10-25 03:23 pm
darnedchild) wrote2016-10-25 03:23 pm
The Adventure of the St Bartholomew Vampire - Part 4
Summary: 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 4
St Bartholomew’s was eerily quiet when Sherlock slipped through the ground floor halls to the stairs that lead down to the catacombs.
Lestrade had wanted to station guards at every entrance; whether to keep the body snatcher out or a walking corpse in, Sherlock could not be certain. He had instructed the Inspector to keep his men out of the hospital and out of sight so as to not spook the thief.
Sherlock wasn’t even certain there would be a theft as the murderer had as good as hand-delivered the corpse to the police in the first place, implying that he wanted the body to be brought to the morgue and examined.
The gas lamps had been extinguished, leaving the catacombs in near pitch black darkness. Sherlock paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. With utmost caution, he inched across the floor, one hand against the wall to help steer him.
Oddly, there was a single lamp lit in the back of the morgue, the flame barely high enough to illuminate the three occupied tables. One of the sheet covered bodies was the latest victim of the St Bartholomew Vampire (according to the news-boy who had been hawking the evening papers in front of Baker Street when he’d stopped in for a change of clothes), but he would need to move closer to ascertain which of the three it was.
Sherlock waited for a long moment to ensure no one was skulking about, then eased toward the circle low light and the three corpses.
The nearly silent creak of shoe leather against the stone floor was his only warning that he was not alone. Sherlock ducked and spun out of pure instinct, his hands coming up in defence as a heavy porcelain bowl passed dangerously close to his head. He grabbed his assailant’s wrist to divert another attack . . .
And felt the delicate bones grind together under his fingers.
“Hooper,” Sherlock gasped in recognition, loosening his hold enough to no longer cause her pain but not enough to allow her to finish what would have been a devastating blow should it have connected.
“Holmes?”
His “What are you doing here?” was whispered at the same time as she quietly hissed “What the hell are you doing in my morgue?”
Sherlock closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. The lack of visual stimulation seemed to amplify the tactile sensations coming from his fingertips. Hooper’s wrist was small and feminine, her skin so very soft.
He released her with a bitten off curse and took a large step back, eyes opening to scan the room for any sign that they may have been discovered by the body thief.
“I’m here for the same reason you are, it would seem. To catch a criminal in the act.” He frowned as he considered how Hooper’s presence might alter his initial plans.
“Planning to take the vampire on all by yourself, were you?” Her tone was mocking, but different than what he was used to hearing from Hooper. For the first time since that long-ago night two years prior, she spoke to him in her own voice rather than the guttural, masculine rasp she’d adopted for her Hooper persona.
He had forgotten how the sound of her true voice had made something warm curl up in the pit of his stomach.
The feeling made him uncomfortable, causing him to snap back. “Were you? I doubt a basin would do much to incapacitate a ghoul.”
“Would have given you quite the headache, though.” She smirked at him.
Smirked!
The urge to snipe at her, tell her he always came away from their meetings with an aching head, was strong but he somehow managed to hold his tongue. What was it about Hooper that put him so ill at ease, that made his very skin prickle and warm, that made him ache to be the focus of her intense brown eyes, to . . . Oh, dear God above, he was beginning to sound like one of Watson’s lovesick letters to Mary.
Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror and he took another step back.
Hooper frowned at him in confusion, her lips pulling downward under her moustache.
He searched both the room and his mind for something to distract her from his inability to continue their usual give-and-take. “Where were you hidden? I didn’t see you when I entered.”
“You walked right past me.” She turned and lead him toward the small room she used as an office during the day, ushering him inside with a hand against his back. Sherlock shivered under her touch and tried to move away, bumping into her desk in the process.
The tiny room was completely dark other than the sliver of dim light curling around the door that had been left cracked open. He’d been in her office once before, just long enough to make note of the space and the layout of furniture inside of it. There had been a large desk taking up the entirety of the east wall, an uncomfortable looking desk chair that stuck out into the middle of the room even when Hooper had tried to tuck it under the desk, and a single cabinet in the north-west corner. The remaining floor space was limited at best, barely large enough for the two of them to stand without touching.
She leaned against the wall and resumed her watch, looking through the space between the door and the frame. If he pressed his chest against her back in order to be able to do the same, surely no one could fault him?
The theatrical smell of the trappings of her disguise assaulted his nostrils; the wig, spirit gum, even the masculine aroma of her cologne (which shared many of the same notes as his own, Sherlock was surprised to discover). Yet beneath it all was the faint fragrance of a woman.
His eyes fluttered closed as he inhaled deeply, searching for more of her scent.
“Holmes?” Hooper had stilled against him, her breath frozen in her lungs.
Sherlock immediately straightened, putting a hair’s breadth between their bodies. “Forgive me . . . Your wig, it threatened to make me sneeze.” He grimaced at his own idiocy, relieved that the lack of light hid the embarrassed flush that briefly stained his cheeks and throat.
“Of-of course,” Hooper stammered. Her shoulders curled inward, widening the distance between them even more.
He had no idea how long they stood watch in silence. He could hear Hooper shifting her weight from foot to foot, a clear indication that she was growing uncomfortable with standing still for so long.
Then, with no prior warning, she quietly spoke. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”
The fine hairs on the nape of his neck prickled as he continued to peer past the door. There was a weight to her question, something far greater than simple curiosity.
“Every day since you discovered my secret I have lived in dread of the moment the Board of Governors calls for my blood and has me removed from my position. Arrested.” He felt her shoulder brush against his chest as she half-turned to look up at him. “I go back to my rooms at night and have that insidious moment of fear that my landlady has had all of my things tossed into the street. I ask again, why haven’t you reported my deception? What are you waiting for?”
Sherlock brought his attention from his vigil to meet her shadowed gaze. “Why would I? Your sex has no detrimental impact on your intelligence or skills. None of the imbeciles who work under you are half as qualified. I shudder to think of the state of the morgue if left in Anderson’s hands.” He frowned, confused as to why they were even discussing the matter. “It is clearly in my best interest to ensure you remain employed at St Bartholomew, as it has always been from the day we first met.”
She turned to face him fully, and he noticed yet again how she was so much smaller than him. If he were to pull her into his arms, his lips would be able to graze her forehead. Sherlock blinked away the stray thought.
“Are you implying that you knew . . . from the beginning?” Hooper questioned.
“I’m not implying anything; I’m stating a fact.” How could she think he wouldn’t have noticed? “Stamford had confidence in your abilities; and other than your antagonistic nature, I had no reason to find fault with your methods. There was no reason to call attention to your sex and risk your removal.”
Hooper stared at him for a long moment. He could barely make out the way she pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she considered his words. “But-but you hate me?” Whether she had intended it to or not, it came out as a question.
“I rarely bother to expend enough effort to hate anyone, Hooper. Yourself included.” The opposite, in fact, as Sherlock had recently come to discover.
“But all these years? The sniping and posturing, and all the rest.”
Sherlock cleared his throat and focused on the room beyond the door, unable to bring himself to look at her expression and see the pity or disgust that would surely appear there. “Not hatred. Never that.”
Her soft “Oh” was the only sound for a long while.
Eventually her continued fidgeting caused him bite out a softly growled, “Sit before you fall, Hooper. I’ll keep watch.”
“No,” she huffed in reply. “I’m not helpless or weak. If you can stand, so will I.”
“Oh for-You stubborn fool.” He spoke over her sputtered objection. “We’ll both sit, but I shall take the spot closest to the door. The necessity of peering over your head has given me a pain in my back.”
With only one or two mild grumbles, she slipped past him and lowered herself to the floor at his feet. Sherlock hesitated only a moment before joining her. There wasn’t enough room for him to stretch out his legs, so he brought his knees up and shifted until he found a position that wasn’t too uncomfortable.
“It was never hate on my part, either,” Hooper whispered so low he barely heard it. He briefly felt the touch of her hand against the back of his own.
He stared unseeing at the door and willed his heart to slow its accelerated pounding.
Hours later something brought him out of a sound sleep. His legs were numb, and his arm was wrapped around the solid weight that pressed against his chest and shoulder. His cheek brushed against the not-quite natural strands of a wig and he knew . . .
Hooper was in his arms.
His lowered his head until his lips barely brushed against her forehead, just as he’d imagined not long ago. Her skin was soft and warm and oh-so-tempting. Would it be so wrong to lift her chin and press his lips against hers? Despite the moustache, the urge was there.
Furtive cursing brought Sherlock out of his daze. He shook Hooper awake and struggled to his feet just as a door slammed somewhere in the catacombs.
Hooper pushed past him and out the door, but she stopped dead at the sight of only two sheet covered bodies. “Damn it all to Hades and back, how did we both fall asleep?”
Sherlock had no wish to admit that he must have been lulled into unconsciousness by the steady sound of her breathing and the comfort of her close proximity. “That’s not important now, what is important is finding the body snatcher before he gets too far. Quickly!”
Unfortunately, by the time they made it to the ground floor of the hospital and out the closest exit, there was no sign of the thief or his burden.
“Now what do you suggest?” Hooper huffed as she bent to rest her hands on her knees, out of breath.
“Now we hope that one of Lestrade’s men has succeeded where we have failed.” His scepticism was apparent in his tone.
Less than half an hour later, Sherlock and Hooper were giving their statements (glossing over the exact circumstances of how they came to fall asleep) when a constable ran up to them, calling Lestrade’s name in a voice loud enough to wake one of the inhabitants of Hooper’s morgue.
“Sir, we’ve found him! The body. You’ll need to see this, sir. You’re not going to believe it.”
They followed the runner to the Priory Church of St Bartholomew the Great. Sherlock could see the gathered crowd of policemen and horrified Londoners standing around something laid out upon the ground near the church door. Lestrade pushed his way through the on-lookers and stopped as soon as he made his way inside the circle, Sherlock and Hooper at his heels.
Number four was arranged as if in repose with his hands carefully folded across his stomach. There was, however, a stake firmly embedded in his chest; and his head had been cleanly removed and placed just above the stump of his neck. Something peeked out from between his lips.
Both Sherlock and Hooper dropped to their knees next to the decapitated body and each pulled a pair of gloves out of their respective jacket pockets.
“May we?” Sherlock asked Lestrade, merely as a formality to help Lestrade save face as the man was surrounded by his subordinates.
Lestrade sighed and waved his hand. “Yeah, all right.”
Hooper delicately opened the head’s mouth so that Sherlock could carefully extract a nearly intact Holy Wafer.
She whispered across the body to him, “The body’s only been missing half an hour. To do this much damage in that limited time frame . . . What kind of a butcher are we looking for?”
Part 1 / Part 5
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 4
St Bartholomew’s was eerily quiet when Sherlock slipped through the ground floor halls to the stairs that lead down to the catacombs.
Lestrade had wanted to station guards at every entrance; whether to keep the body snatcher out or a walking corpse in, Sherlock could not be certain. He had instructed the Inspector to keep his men out of the hospital and out of sight so as to not spook the thief.
Sherlock wasn’t even certain there would be a theft as the murderer had as good as hand-delivered the corpse to the police in the first place, implying that he wanted the body to be brought to the morgue and examined.
The gas lamps had been extinguished, leaving the catacombs in near pitch black darkness. Sherlock paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. With utmost caution, he inched across the floor, one hand against the wall to help steer him.
Oddly, there was a single lamp lit in the back of the morgue, the flame barely high enough to illuminate the three occupied tables. One of the sheet covered bodies was the latest victim of the St Bartholomew Vampire (according to the news-boy who had been hawking the evening papers in front of Baker Street when he’d stopped in for a change of clothes), but he would need to move closer to ascertain which of the three it was.
Sherlock waited for a long moment to ensure no one was skulking about, then eased toward the circle low light and the three corpses.
The nearly silent creak of shoe leather against the stone floor was his only warning that he was not alone. Sherlock ducked and spun out of pure instinct, his hands coming up in defence as a heavy porcelain bowl passed dangerously close to his head. He grabbed his assailant’s wrist to divert another attack . . .
And felt the delicate bones grind together under his fingers.
“Hooper,” Sherlock gasped in recognition, loosening his hold enough to no longer cause her pain but not enough to allow her to finish what would have been a devastating blow should it have connected.
“Holmes?”
His “What are you doing here?” was whispered at the same time as she quietly hissed “What the hell are you doing in my morgue?”
Sherlock closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. The lack of visual stimulation seemed to amplify the tactile sensations coming from his fingertips. Hooper’s wrist was small and feminine, her skin so very soft.
He released her with a bitten off curse and took a large step back, eyes opening to scan the room for any sign that they may have been discovered by the body thief.
“I’m here for the same reason you are, it would seem. To catch a criminal in the act.” He frowned as he considered how Hooper’s presence might alter his initial plans.
“Planning to take the vampire on all by yourself, were you?” Her tone was mocking, but different than what he was used to hearing from Hooper. For the first time since that long-ago night two years prior, she spoke to him in her own voice rather than the guttural, masculine rasp she’d adopted for her Hooper persona.
He had forgotten how the sound of her true voice had made something warm curl up in the pit of his stomach.
The feeling made him uncomfortable, causing him to snap back. “Were you? I doubt a basin would do much to incapacitate a ghoul.”
“Would have given you quite the headache, though.” She smirked at him.
Smirked!
The urge to snipe at her, tell her he always came away from their meetings with an aching head, was strong but he somehow managed to hold his tongue. What was it about Hooper that put him so ill at ease, that made his very skin prickle and warm, that made him ache to be the focus of her intense brown eyes, to . . . Oh, dear God above, he was beginning to sound like one of Watson’s lovesick letters to Mary.
Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror and he took another step back.
Hooper frowned at him in confusion, her lips pulling downward under her moustache.
He searched both the room and his mind for something to distract her from his inability to continue their usual give-and-take. “Where were you hidden? I didn’t see you when I entered.”
“You walked right past me.” She turned and lead him toward the small room she used as an office during the day, ushering him inside with a hand against his back. Sherlock shivered under her touch and tried to move away, bumping into her desk in the process.
The tiny room was completely dark other than the sliver of dim light curling around the door that had been left cracked open. He’d been in her office once before, just long enough to make note of the space and the layout of furniture inside of it. There had been a large desk taking up the entirety of the east wall, an uncomfortable looking desk chair that stuck out into the middle of the room even when Hooper had tried to tuck it under the desk, and a single cabinet in the north-west corner. The remaining floor space was limited at best, barely large enough for the two of them to stand without touching.
She leaned against the wall and resumed her watch, looking through the space between the door and the frame. If he pressed his chest against her back in order to be able to do the same, surely no one could fault him?
The theatrical smell of the trappings of her disguise assaulted his nostrils; the wig, spirit gum, even the masculine aroma of her cologne (which shared many of the same notes as his own, Sherlock was surprised to discover). Yet beneath it all was the faint fragrance of a woman.
His eyes fluttered closed as he inhaled deeply, searching for more of her scent.
“Holmes?” Hooper had stilled against him, her breath frozen in her lungs.
Sherlock immediately straightened, putting a hair’s breadth between their bodies. “Forgive me . . . Your wig, it threatened to make me sneeze.” He grimaced at his own idiocy, relieved that the lack of light hid the embarrassed flush that briefly stained his cheeks and throat.
“Of-of course,” Hooper stammered. Her shoulders curled inward, widening the distance between them even more.
He had no idea how long they stood watch in silence. He could hear Hooper shifting her weight from foot to foot, a clear indication that she was growing uncomfortable with standing still for so long.
Then, with no prior warning, she quietly spoke. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”
The fine hairs on the nape of his neck prickled as he continued to peer past the door. There was a weight to her question, something far greater than simple curiosity.
“Every day since you discovered my secret I have lived in dread of the moment the Board of Governors calls for my blood and has me removed from my position. Arrested.” He felt her shoulder brush against his chest as she half-turned to look up at him. “I go back to my rooms at night and have that insidious moment of fear that my landlady has had all of my things tossed into the street. I ask again, why haven’t you reported my deception? What are you waiting for?”
Sherlock brought his attention from his vigil to meet her shadowed gaze. “Why would I? Your sex has no detrimental impact on your intelligence or skills. None of the imbeciles who work under you are half as qualified. I shudder to think of the state of the morgue if left in Anderson’s hands.” He frowned, confused as to why they were even discussing the matter. “It is clearly in my best interest to ensure you remain employed at St Bartholomew, as it has always been from the day we first met.”
She turned to face him fully, and he noticed yet again how she was so much smaller than him. If he were to pull her into his arms, his lips would be able to graze her forehead. Sherlock blinked away the stray thought.
“Are you implying that you knew . . . from the beginning?” Hooper questioned.
“I’m not implying anything; I’m stating a fact.” How could she think he wouldn’t have noticed? “Stamford had confidence in your abilities; and other than your antagonistic nature, I had no reason to find fault with your methods. There was no reason to call attention to your sex and risk your removal.”
Hooper stared at him for a long moment. He could barely make out the way she pulled her lower lip between her teeth as she considered his words. “But-but you hate me?” Whether she had intended it to or not, it came out as a question.
“I rarely bother to expend enough effort to hate anyone, Hooper. Yourself included.” The opposite, in fact, as Sherlock had recently come to discover.
“But all these years? The sniping and posturing, and all the rest.”
Sherlock cleared his throat and focused on the room beyond the door, unable to bring himself to look at her expression and see the pity or disgust that would surely appear there. “Not hatred. Never that.”
Her soft “Oh” was the only sound for a long while.
Eventually her continued fidgeting caused him bite out a softly growled, “Sit before you fall, Hooper. I’ll keep watch.”
“No,” she huffed in reply. “I’m not helpless or weak. If you can stand, so will I.”
“Oh for-You stubborn fool.” He spoke over her sputtered objection. “We’ll both sit, but I shall take the spot closest to the door. The necessity of peering over your head has given me a pain in my back.”
With only one or two mild grumbles, she slipped past him and lowered herself to the floor at his feet. Sherlock hesitated only a moment before joining her. There wasn’t enough room for him to stretch out his legs, so he brought his knees up and shifted until he found a position that wasn’t too uncomfortable.
“It was never hate on my part, either,” Hooper whispered so low he barely heard it. He briefly felt the touch of her hand against the back of his own.
He stared unseeing at the door and willed his heart to slow its accelerated pounding.
Hours later something brought him out of a sound sleep. His legs were numb, and his arm was wrapped around the solid weight that pressed against his chest and shoulder. His cheek brushed against the not-quite natural strands of a wig and he knew . . .
Hooper was in his arms.
His lowered his head until his lips barely brushed against her forehead, just as he’d imagined not long ago. Her skin was soft and warm and oh-so-tempting. Would it be so wrong to lift her chin and press his lips against hers? Despite the moustache, the urge was there.
Furtive cursing brought Sherlock out of his daze. He shook Hooper awake and struggled to his feet just as a door slammed somewhere in the catacombs.
Hooper pushed past him and out the door, but she stopped dead at the sight of only two sheet covered bodies. “Damn it all to Hades and back, how did we both fall asleep?”
Sherlock had no wish to admit that he must have been lulled into unconsciousness by the steady sound of her breathing and the comfort of her close proximity. “That’s not important now, what is important is finding the body snatcher before he gets too far. Quickly!”
Unfortunately, by the time they made it to the ground floor of the hospital and out the closest exit, there was no sign of the thief or his burden.
“Now what do you suggest?” Hooper huffed as she bent to rest her hands on her knees, out of breath.
“Now we hope that one of Lestrade’s men has succeeded where we have failed.” His scepticism was apparent in his tone.
Less than half an hour later, Sherlock and Hooper were giving their statements (glossing over the exact circumstances of how they came to fall asleep) when a constable ran up to them, calling Lestrade’s name in a voice loud enough to wake one of the inhabitants of Hooper’s morgue.
“Sir, we’ve found him! The body. You’ll need to see this, sir. You’re not going to believe it.”
They followed the runner to the Priory Church of St Bartholomew the Great. Sherlock could see the gathered crowd of policemen and horrified Londoners standing around something laid out upon the ground near the church door. Lestrade pushed his way through the on-lookers and stopped as soon as he made his way inside the circle, Sherlock and Hooper at his heels.
Number four was arranged as if in repose with his hands carefully folded across his stomach. There was, however, a stake firmly embedded in his chest; and his head had been cleanly removed and placed just above the stump of his neck. Something peeked out from between his lips.
Both Sherlock and Hooper dropped to their knees next to the decapitated body and each pulled a pair of gloves out of their respective jacket pockets.
“May we?” Sherlock asked Lestrade, merely as a formality to help Lestrade save face as the man was surrounded by his subordinates.
Lestrade sighed and waved his hand. “Yeah, all right.”
Hooper delicately opened the head’s mouth so that Sherlock could carefully extract a nearly intact Holy Wafer.
She whispered across the body to him, “The body’s only been missing half an hour. To do this much damage in that limited time frame . . . What kind of a butcher are we looking for?”
Part 1 / Part 5