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Apr. 13th, 2012 08:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellerkayTitle: Wake the Dead
Fandoms: The Addams Family movies & BBC’s Sherlock
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 918
Summary:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vincentursus requested Wednesday Addams and John Watson; “The eyes are the window to the soul.”
CONTAINS SPOILERS for Series 2 of Sherlock.
***
John Watson walked slowly through the cemetery, trying to pretend he didn’t know where he was headed, that he was just out for a stroll. In a graveyard, at night. Of course you are. The moon above him was huge – full, maybe – and its light bathed the landscape, making it easy enough to see, even in the unlit graveyard. Despite this, John was nearly at Sherlock’s grave before he saw that there was another person approaching from the opposite direction. They arrived at the grave at almost the same moment.
She was tall and thin, dressed all in black. Her long hair – also black – was back in a neat braid, and her skin was so pale it almost glowed in the moonlight. John thought that she was probably in her mid- to late twenties, and that she would have been very pretty if she ever smiled.
He paused. Should he give the girl a moment? Demand to know who she was? Had she known Sherlock? Maybe she was a goth girl who just like cemeteries in the dark, and their meeting just here was a coincidence.
She quickly put that theory to rest when she spoke. “You’re John Watson.”
“Yes, hello,” John said, confusedly. Her steady stare was unnerving. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“No. I saw your picture online. Wednesday Addams.”
“Sorry?”
“My name is Wednesday Addams.”
“Ah. Er, pleased to meet you.” The girl was American, by her accent. Had Sherlock’s fame spread so far? Had his own? Her gaze had shifted to Sherlock’s headstone, and she didn’t speak again. After a moment, John shifted, annoyed with himself that he had no idea what was going on. Sherlock could have told him the girl’s family history by now.
“Sorry,” he said, yet again, “but, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here? Are you a fan of Sherlock’s?” Were you, it should be.
“Not exactly,” she replied. “But I believe you. I don’t think he was a fraud. And I need his help. It’s my uncle.” She rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”
John blinked, suddenly a little worried. “You do know he’s dead, don’t you?”
Wednesday gave him a look which, by all rights, should have turned him to stone.
“Of course I know that. We’re standing in front of his grave.”
“Then, how – ”
“When I was a child, we used to play a game called ‘Wake the Dead,’” she replied. Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to work out her family’s history, after all. “I’ve since learned a more sophisticated version.”
She put her hand on Sherlock’s headstone. There was a low rumbling; the earth covering his coffin, which was still relatively loose, began to tremble and shift. The rumbling turned into a roar; the earth rolled away, and suddenly, the coffin John had seen lowered into the ground less than a month before was sitting in front of the headstone again. John gave a yelp of surprise and fear; instantly, Wednesday clapped a cool hand firmly over his lips.
“Shh.” Her intense eyes were trained on his face, and John fell silent under the weight of her gaze. “I’ll give you a chance to say goodbye, once I’ve spoken with him.” She took her hand away. John’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He thought he should go and get someone – graveyard staff? police? an undertaker? – but all he could do was stare at the figure in front of him, thinking of the wild, insane hope she’d offered him. Surely she was mad, but – look at what she did to the coffin –
Wednesday knelt on the ground next to the coffin. She rested a hand on it, and bowed her head. John took a deep breath, but almost immediately, she sighed and rose again.
“Well, that was a waste of airfare,” she said, still more blank thank annoyed.
“What?”
“There’s no body in there.”
John stared at her. “Don’t be daft. Of course there is.”
“See for yourself.” Wednesday waved a hand, and the lid flew up. John stared at the pristine white silken pillow which was the coffin’s only occupant, and felt the color drain from his face.
“Where is he?” he whispered.
“Either he’s been moved, or he was never buried here in the first place,” Wednesday said flatly. John stared at her.
“Never here?”
“Well, are you sure he’s really dead?”
“Am I sure – ” John choked on his rage or grief or some emotion he couldn’t name. “Of course I’m bloody well sure he’s dead! I saw him die!”
Wednesday turned back to the coffin. “They say the eyes are the window to the soul, so I suppose, theoretically, you can trust what you see in them. That doesn’t necessarily mean you should trust what you can see with them.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to find another way to help Uncle Fester.” She turned to John again; John dragged his eyes from Sherlock’s coffin. No, not Sherlock’s, just a coffin, buried in a grave with Sherlock’s name at the front.
Was it his imagination, or was there just a hint of sympathy in her eyes?
“I hope you find him, Doctor Watson,” Wednesday said. “Dead or alive.” She waved a hand, and – strangely silent this time around – the coffin closed and slid back into the earth. She handed him a slip of paper. “And when you do, give me a call. I can help you get him to explain himself either way.”
Fandoms: The Addams Family movies & BBC’s Sherlock
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 918
Summary:
vincentursus requested Wednesday Addams and John Watson; “The eyes are the window to the soul.”CONTAINS SPOILERS for Series 2 of Sherlock.
***
John Watson walked slowly through the cemetery, trying to pretend he didn’t know where he was headed, that he was just out for a stroll. In a graveyard, at night. Of course you are. The moon above him was huge – full, maybe – and its light bathed the landscape, making it easy enough to see, even in the unlit graveyard. Despite this, John was nearly at Sherlock’s grave before he saw that there was another person approaching from the opposite direction. They arrived at the grave at almost the same moment.
She was tall and thin, dressed all in black. Her long hair – also black – was back in a neat braid, and her skin was so pale it almost glowed in the moonlight. John thought that she was probably in her mid- to late twenties, and that she would have been very pretty if she ever smiled.
He paused. Should he give the girl a moment? Demand to know who she was? Had she known Sherlock? Maybe she was a goth girl who just like cemeteries in the dark, and their meeting just here was a coincidence.
She quickly put that theory to rest when she spoke. “You’re John Watson.”
“Yes, hello,” John said, confusedly. Her steady stare was unnerving. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“No. I saw your picture online. Wednesday Addams.”
“Sorry?”
“My name is Wednesday Addams.”
“Ah. Er, pleased to meet you.” The girl was American, by her accent. Had Sherlock’s fame spread so far? Had his own? Her gaze had shifted to Sherlock’s headstone, and she didn’t speak again. After a moment, John shifted, annoyed with himself that he had no idea what was going on. Sherlock could have told him the girl’s family history by now.
“Sorry,” he said, yet again, “but, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here? Are you a fan of Sherlock’s?” Were you, it should be.
“Not exactly,” she replied. “But I believe you. I don’t think he was a fraud. And I need his help. It’s my uncle.” She rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”
John blinked, suddenly a little worried. “You do know he’s dead, don’t you?”
Wednesday gave him a look which, by all rights, should have turned him to stone.
“Of course I know that. We’re standing in front of his grave.”
“Then, how – ”
“When I was a child, we used to play a game called ‘Wake the Dead,’” she replied. Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to work out her family’s history, after all. “I’ve since learned a more sophisticated version.”
She put her hand on Sherlock’s headstone. There was a low rumbling; the earth covering his coffin, which was still relatively loose, began to tremble and shift. The rumbling turned into a roar; the earth rolled away, and suddenly, the coffin John had seen lowered into the ground less than a month before was sitting in front of the headstone again. John gave a yelp of surprise and fear; instantly, Wednesday clapped a cool hand firmly over his lips.
“Shh.” Her intense eyes were trained on his face, and John fell silent under the weight of her gaze. “I’ll give you a chance to say goodbye, once I’ve spoken with him.” She took her hand away. John’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He thought he should go and get someone – graveyard staff? police? an undertaker? – but all he could do was stare at the figure in front of him, thinking of the wild, insane hope she’d offered him. Surely she was mad, but – look at what she did to the coffin –
Wednesday knelt on the ground next to the coffin. She rested a hand on it, and bowed her head. John took a deep breath, but almost immediately, she sighed and rose again.
“Well, that was a waste of airfare,” she said, still more blank thank annoyed.
“What?”
“There’s no body in there.”
John stared at her. “Don’t be daft. Of course there is.”
“See for yourself.” Wednesday waved a hand, and the lid flew up. John stared at the pristine white silken pillow which was the coffin’s only occupant, and felt the color drain from his face.
“Where is he?” he whispered.
“Either he’s been moved, or he was never buried here in the first place,” Wednesday said flatly. John stared at her.
“Never here?”
“Well, are you sure he’s really dead?”
“Am I sure – ” John choked on his rage or grief or some emotion he couldn’t name. “Of course I’m bloody well sure he’s dead! I saw him die!”
Wednesday turned back to the coffin. “They say the eyes are the window to the soul, so I suppose, theoretically, you can trust what you see in them. That doesn’t necessarily mean you should trust what you can see with them.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to find another way to help Uncle Fester.” She turned to John again; John dragged his eyes from Sherlock’s coffin. No, not Sherlock’s, just a coffin, buried in a grave with Sherlock’s name at the front.
Was it his imagination, or was there just a hint of sympathy in her eyes?
“I hope you find him, Doctor Watson,” Wednesday said. “Dead or alive.” She waved a hand, and – strangely silent this time around – the coffin closed and slid back into the earth. She handed him a slip of paper. “And when you do, give me a call. I can help you get him to explain himself either way.”
