#didn't even experience that and/or they did something 'just as bad' several hundred centuries ago... what the actual fuck
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honestly it's shit like that stuff with radi that makes me want to finish this thistlewind/markoth fic and seer character study that much faster.
#I'M JUST... GRRR#it's unbearable. i love talking shit on radi but if you pretend to dance around like you care about hk lore and then you#claim that she was like That to the void civilization . . . we are not the same.#go replay the game you fundamentally misunderstood the king's character and what radiance and the moths represent#SORRY TO GO ON ABOUT THIS I AM JUST SOOO...#look. look. i don't get defensive over many things but when you're implying the indigenous people of a place that was#directly threatened and written over by hallownest (at the LEAST) run by the WHITE king and WHITE lady#didn't even experience that and/or they did something 'just as bad' several hundred centuries ago... what the actual fuck#like not even playing the card that the seer reminds me of my grandfather + moths in general remind me of my family on his side#just objectively it's such a . ??? like okay let's step back a bit how the fuck did you find the hoops to jump thru for this#jestersvaguely
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'I think I like this holiday.'
Set in the same universe as the ‘raising the dead’ one. Only one single prompt to go, and I don’t think I’ll be getting to it before November. Sorry :(
*
“So who are we raising this year?”Sherlock asked, breezing into the morgue. She wanted him there a bitearly, probably for help with the set-up this time.
“You’ll see,” she said, ahint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Just need to do a bit ofprep work and then we’ll grab the bags and be off.“
*
Not much had changed in the year sinceshe’d revealed who she was, though he wasn’t sure why he’d expectedit to, really. Experiments in the lab had shifted to experiments inher flat or sometimes road trips out into the country, sometimes heasked her for a bit of a shortcut with her scrying mirror for anurgent case, and he’d saved a few hundred pounds on dry cleaning. Turned out she wasn’t as habitually tidy as he once thought; herentire flat was ensorcelled to keep itself clean and she had spellsfor everything. He understood why they’d tried to endwitchcraft all those centuries ago; the incantation she used tounclog a drain could dissolve a human being into a puddle of goo in amatter of minutes. If Mycroft got wind of it, she’d probably belocked away in some secret island prison and weaponized as-needed.
And Toby, who wasn’t just a plain oldhouse cat, but actually her familiar… Sherlock still didn’ttrust him. He knew entirely too much and he was too smug about it. At least his silence was easily bought with a tin of sardines or asprig of fresh catnip. For now.
Sherlock’s virginity had become hisbiggest asset, as far as Molly was concerned. Blood of a virgin,hair of a virgin, tooth of a virgin (and oh how unpleasant that onehad been, but she had a spell to re-grow it so it wasn’t thatbad, considering), once he even had to hold a raven’s egg in hismouth from sunset to sunrise; he was a rare and valuable commodity. Between that fact and the cat, he was sure never to get a leg over. Not that that was important, exactly, he had Molly all to himselfanyway because he made sure to keep her busy with experiments andbringing her in on more of his cases and the occasional celebratoryouting that was certainly not a date. Even so, a bit more would benice.
*
“Catherine Eddowes.”
“Nope.”
“Mary Jane Kelly.”
“No, none of the Ripper victims,they’d be too decomposed. They need soft tissue, remember?”
“Not Robert Pakington, then,”he muttered, racking his brain for who the surprise guest of honourcould be.
“I don’t even know who that is.”
“First murder ever committed inLondon with a handgun. 1536.”
“Ah. I’ll give you a hint—”
“No hints! I want to figure itout on my own.”
“More data, then. We’re notgrave-robbing.”
“Well that’s disappointing,”he huffed. Not that he was looking forward to the shovelling, but hedid enjoy flouting laws and decency.
“Maybe some other time,” shesaid, sounding like someone’s Mum.
So, soft tissue, but not grave-robbing. Probably not a corpse in another morgue, she’d just have them sentto Bart’s (she could get her hands on anything she wanted and didn’teven need magic to do it). More decomposed than last year’s cat-ladybecause she was working backwards from fresh after the skeletondebacle, so dead more than four months before being discovered,assuming no extenuating circumstances like exposure to the elementsor submersion…
Either she’d been keeping a corpse onice in a Lok'nStore somewhere or it was a preserved specimen.
“One of Gunther von Hagen’sbodies?”
“No, but that would beinteresting. I wonder if it would even work on a plasticized body,since they’re mostly inorganic. We’ll have to remember that for nextyear,” she said.
Her use of ‘we’ in conjunction with‘next year’ made him warm inside. But back to the matter at hand—
“Jeremy Bentham?”
“No, but warm. Ish. Right train,wrong station.”
“A mummy?”
“You’ll see.”
“So it is a mummy.”
She mimed zipping her lips and throwingaway the key.
*
“I knew it was a mummy,” hewhispered as Molly’s friend led them through the bowels of theBritish Museum to one of the conservation rooms. She squeezed hishand hard enough for the bones to grind together, probably afraidthat he’d blow their cover. Him,of all people. Who did she think he was?
Assoon as they were in the room with the mummy, the alarm system wentoff (Molly’s doing).
“Bollocks,”Molly’s friend (whose name he hadn’t caught, but was no threat at allbecause 1. gay, 2. married, 3. under 30) swore. "Must havetriggered a sensor somehow, it happens sometimes, be back in a tick.“
Thefriend scurried off and Molly dropped Sherlock’s hand with theone-word order of “Candles,” while she set her bag on thenearest table and unpacked the grimoire and Thermos flask ofblood-herb ‘soup.’
“Sheet?”she prompted over her shoulder, pouring the blood mixture into thecap of the flask.
Heleaned over the mummy and pulled back the sheet and stared indisbelief for a moment before finally finding his voice.
“Molly,this is Lindow Man. One of the most significant artefacts in all of British history, notsome ten-a-penny Egyptian mummy! Whatif something goes wrong?” He watched in horror as she dippedher fingers in the blood and smeared three lines on the corpse’sforehead.
“Nothing’sgoing to go wrong, I’ve done this before. You’ve seenme do this before. Unless there’s something you’re not telling meabout the potential reactivity of one of my reagents—?”
“I’mstill—” he cleared his throat and rolled his wrist in a vaguegesture because he wasn’t going to say avirginout loud “—if that’s what you mean.”
“Thenwe have nothing to worry about. And I thought we’d have a betterchance communicating with this one, unless you can speak ancientEgyptian?”
“Ihave a working knowledge of ancient Greek, the linguafrancaof the time,” he sniffed, annoyed with her tone.
“AndI have a working knowledge of all the Brittonic and Goideliclanguages, andLatin, thanks to this,” she countered, holding up the grimoire. “Now, if we could get on with it? On a bit of a schedule.”
He huffed and stepped back; it wasn’tthat he didn’t trust her abilities—he did, more than anyone (notthat he knew any other witches, but that was beside the point)—hewas just very aware of the consequences should something not go toplan.
Molly graced him with a half-smile thatwas the equivalent of a sarcastic thank you and continued anointingthe body, then grabbed her book, realizing too late that she’dforgotten to wipe the blood off her hands. She scrunched her nose inannoyance and his stomach did that funny, flippy thing it always didwhen she was being utterly adorable. She read the incantation andthe blood glowed gold for a moment before disappearing into thecorpse’s skin; nothing happened for a moment, and then the toes onthe severed right leg began to wiggle.
The head slowly turned from its bentposition to face forward, crackling like old parchment, its mouthworking to form words. Sherlock prided himself on his ration andsubsequent immunity to fear; a chill ran down his spine from thesight and he fought the urge to grab Molly and run. Molly,however, seemed utterly delighted and leaned closer to try to catchwhat Lindow Man (!!!!) might be saying.
He watched as her brow wrinkled and herexpression morphed into consternation. She stepped back from thebody and looked up at him.
“I’m pretty sure he just called mea cow’s vagina and told me I should be strangled by my own hair,”she said.
“Going to go out on a limb and sayhis ritualistic murder was carried out by your forebears,”Sherlock said dryly, watching the corpse try to prop himself up onwhat was left of his arms.
It was then, of course, that Molly’sfriend re-entered the room, muttering something about needing keys;they hadn’t planned for that contingency.
She looked between the body, Sherlock,and the door in a panic; the friend was supposed to be gone for tenminutes at least, long enough for Molly to cast an amnesia/re-written memory spell. Sherlock triangulated and worked out anglesin his head and moved two steps to his right, pulling Molly alongwith him as he wrapped his arms around her and dipped her backwardsagainst the table the body was on. Molly flailed, off-balance andcaught off-guard, then flung her arms around him in a bid to stayupright and just out of reach of the angry, wheezing corpse behindthem.
“Sorry,” he murmured beforeleaning in to kiss her, committing fully to selling it despite thefriend not being able to see their faces from that angle.
Much to his surprise, she kissed back,and rather ardently at that.
“Whoa, sorry! I, ah, I didn't—Imean, you said it was your anniversary but I—yeah, I’ll just be outin the hall for a few minutes,” the friend said, footstepsalready retreating.
He lingered for just a second longerbefore breaking the kiss and pulling Molly upright. "How longuntil the spell wears off?“ he asked quietly.
"I don’t know, it could beminutes, it could be hours!”
“Is there some kind ofcounter-spell or something to break it, like snuffing the candlesor—”
“Blood,” she interrupted. “The blood is connected to you and the purity of your life forceis what’s animating the body. If your blood is corrupted, the spellbreaks.”
“So you mean…?” Surely shecouldn’t.
“Do you have a better plan?”she snapped.
He couldn’t fathom there being a moreperfect plan ever conceived of in the history of plans. "Virginsacrifice it is,“ he said lightly, dipping back down to kiss heragain before she could say anything else.
*
"So much for grave robbing orplasticized bodies next year,” he said, breaking the awkwardsilence in the cab on the way back to—where were they going? Bart’s? Her flat? His flat? He hadn’t been paying attention whenshe’d given the cabby the address. They hadn’t spoken a word to eachother since they’d broken the spell.
Really, he’d rather forget those threeminutes of mortification, being watched by a two thousand year oldcorpse no less; he wondered if she’d do him a favour and alter hismemories.
“It’s alright, I’ll just go backto the universities again. Might be able to weasel my way into ananime club or a LARP group. Or, I mean, there are, ah, other…spells… rituals, really… we could do, if you still want to haveum, the same level of participation with, ah… fluids.”
“Fluids.”
“Nevermind, forget I said that.”
“I believe we can work somethingout,” he said tentatively. Then the full impact of what she was(probably) offering hit him. He couldn’t help but grin. "Ithink I like this holiday.“
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