Crossover Week: Five People... (3): A Detective, G
Mar 20, 2012 13:06:58 GMT 10
hawksandfeathers likes this
Post by Kris11 on Mar 20, 2012 13:06:58 GMT 10
Title: Five People Rosethorn Meets in the Afterlife 3: A Consulting Detective
Rating : G
Word Count: 517
Crossover: Emelan/Sherlock, 2010
Summary (and any Warnings): Rosethorn meets five men before her boy comes to fetch her. Don't these freaks know she has more important things to do than deal with their issues?
Notes: I know he's not going to be dead, but I wanted to write him, so sue me (but don't... I got the "it's not you, we're trying to cut expenses" talk at work today
) This was was hard because neither of them want to talk to strangers...
Sherlock noticed immediately what had eluded the others who came here, about what was wrong about this place. It wasn't the emptiness of the buildings (which was unnatural, of course since London had 4542 inhabitants per square kilometre and there was, therefore, an improbability that no one would be in sight or hearing range), or the unnatural fog (not mist, of course, as that is only the correct label if visibility was more than 200m), but the complete lack of smell. He turned his nose up to the air, to be sure. Nothing.
Scientifically, olfaction was the scent linked most strongly to memory. He supposed, if one had the inclination to poetics, which Sherlock Holmes certainly did not that this place was void of the past, of the links one has made to life.
Again, though, not poetic. He archived it in his mind as an interesting phenomenon and turned 90 degrees to continue his analysis.
There was a woman barefoot on the street before him and Sherlock instantly knew three things about her.
One, she was a gardener. Not one of those mow-the-back-garden types, either, but the ones who could sustain a small village on the produce they were able to create. The worn tips on her fingernails, the faintest tan lines evident in a lot of time spent outdoors, bent over (very faint; she must use sunblock regularly). A handy sort of talent, Sherlock supposed, since he did have to eat like everyone else, though, of course, utterly boring.
Two, she was religious. He wasn't sure what kind of religion, exactly. Keeping track of all the sects seemed like useless knowledge to him, since the basic ideas behind them were so uniform and easy to manipulate. The habit she wore could be mistaken for a robe, but the cut and material showed it was not (obviously), and although fashion was one of the few inexplicable things in life, he did not believe that they had come into the regular, casual wear of the masses.
Three, she had left behind a husband and two, no three, no four (really, where does the urge to have that many come from?) children, but one odd note caught his interest.
"Which one?" he asked. The stranger raised an eyebrow impatiently. "Which child are you worried about? You have three others, and a husband, but only one is causing you to pick at your habit like that. Which one?"
She snorted as she walked by. "Keep your neb in your own business," she said, taking obvious pleasure in the use of the slang, which Sherlock didn't understand. "My partner will take care of the children," she said as she walked away. Casually, she said over her shoulder: "She was best at it, anyway."
"'She"' he cursed, kicking at the cobblestones. "It's always something."
He ignored as the religious gardener went on her way. Molly had been instructed to stop his heart for only long enough to show his body, for definitive proof of death. He paced as he waited to be returned to life. The game, after all, was on.
Rating : G
Word Count: 517
Crossover: Emelan/Sherlock, 2010
Summary (and any Warnings): Rosethorn meets five men before her boy comes to fetch her. Don't these freaks know she has more important things to do than deal with their issues?
Notes: I know he's not going to be dead, but I wanted to write him, so sue me (but don't... I got the "it's not you, we're trying to cut expenses" talk at work today
) This was was hard because neither of them want to talk to strangers... Sherlock noticed immediately what had eluded the others who came here, about what was wrong about this place. It wasn't the emptiness of the buildings (which was unnatural, of course since London had 4542 inhabitants per square kilometre and there was, therefore, an improbability that no one would be in sight or hearing range), or the unnatural fog (not mist, of course, as that is only the correct label if visibility was more than 200m), but the complete lack of smell. He turned his nose up to the air, to be sure. Nothing.
Scientifically, olfaction was the scent linked most strongly to memory. He supposed, if one had the inclination to poetics, which Sherlock Holmes certainly did not that this place was void of the past, of the links one has made to life.
Again, though, not poetic. He archived it in his mind as an interesting phenomenon and turned 90 degrees to continue his analysis.
There was a woman barefoot on the street before him and Sherlock instantly knew three things about her.
One, she was a gardener. Not one of those mow-the-back-garden types, either, but the ones who could sustain a small village on the produce they were able to create. The worn tips on her fingernails, the faintest tan lines evident in a lot of time spent outdoors, bent over (very faint; she must use sunblock regularly). A handy sort of talent, Sherlock supposed, since he did have to eat like everyone else, though, of course, utterly boring.
Two, she was religious. He wasn't sure what kind of religion, exactly. Keeping track of all the sects seemed like useless knowledge to him, since the basic ideas behind them were so uniform and easy to manipulate. The habit she wore could be mistaken for a robe, but the cut and material showed it was not (obviously), and although fashion was one of the few inexplicable things in life, he did not believe that they had come into the regular, casual wear of the masses.
Three, she had left behind a husband and two, no three, no four (really, where does the urge to have that many come from?) children, but one odd note caught his interest.
"Which one?" he asked. The stranger raised an eyebrow impatiently. "Which child are you worried about? You have three others, and a husband, but only one is causing you to pick at your habit like that. Which one?"
She snorted as she walked by. "Keep your neb in your own business," she said, taking obvious pleasure in the use of the slang, which Sherlock didn't understand. "My partner will take care of the children," she said as she walked away. Casually, she said over her shoulder: "She was best at it, anyway."
"'She"' he cursed, kicking at the cobblestones. "It's always something."
He ignored as the religious gardener went on her way. Molly had been instructed to stop his heart for only long enough to show his body, for definitive proof of death. He paced as he waited to be returned to life. The game, after all, was on.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!