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221B week, Day 8: Oh My God!
Jun. 19th, 2011 10:12 pmBBC Sherlock metafic
Rating 12 (minor character death)
Summary: In a recent comment, I compiled a list of 221B closing words I'd used. Which was bound to lead to my imagination taking an even more bizarre turn....
A sequel to Death of a Fanatic. However this story does not make any more sense if you read that first.
Mary Sutherland was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.
"Yes, there is," Lestrade protested. "She was that barking mad RPF writer, wasn't she? She died of an aneurism in London in January. How the fuck can she now have died in June on Dartmoor?"
"Oh, we know that bit, sir," Sally replied. "She didn't technically die on that fangirl outing, after all. Apparently, she accepted a drink from some Italian friar she met that made her seem to be dead, and then woke up forty-two hours later on a mortuary slab. Gave Molly Hooper a hell of a fright, I gather."
"That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life," said Lestrade.
"Sounds a bit dull," said an irritatingly familiar voice behind him. "This, however, is not. I sent John down to Devon with instructions to report back. Here are his pictures of the scene."
Lestrade stared at the phone screen, and the tall brown-haired woman sprawled lifeless on the ground. "Moriarty's work?" he enquired. It normally was.
"You idiot," Sherlock replied. "Look over there, at that spot near the woman's head. Can't you see the footprints?"
"Footprints? Those look...they look like rabbit tracks, except ten times larger."
"Serves Ms Sutherland right," said Sherlock cheerfully. "She's been mauled to death by a gigantic plot bunny."
Rating 12 (minor character death)
Summary: In a recent comment, I compiled a list of 221B closing words I'd used. Which was bound to lead to my imagination taking an even more bizarre turn....
A sequel to Death of a Fanatic. However this story does not make any more sense if you read that first.
Mary Sutherland was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.
"Yes, there is," Lestrade protested. "She was that barking mad RPF writer, wasn't she? She died of an aneurism in London in January. How the fuck can she now have died in June on Dartmoor?"
"Oh, we know that bit, sir," Sally replied. "She didn't technically die on that fangirl outing, after all. Apparently, she accepted a drink from some Italian friar she met that made her seem to be dead, and then woke up forty-two hours later on a mortuary slab. Gave Molly Hooper a hell of a fright, I gather."
"That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life," said Lestrade.
"Sounds a bit dull," said an irritatingly familiar voice behind him. "This, however, is not. I sent John down to Devon with instructions to report back. Here are his pictures of the scene."
Lestrade stared at the phone screen, and the tall brown-haired woman sprawled lifeless on the ground. "Moriarty's work?" he enquired. It normally was.
"You idiot," Sherlock replied. "Look over there, at that spot near the woman's head. Can't you see the footprints?"
"Footprints? Those look...they look like rabbit tracks, except ten times larger."
"Serves Ms Sutherland right," said Sherlock cheerfully. "She's been mauled to death by a gigantic plot bunny."
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