Fandom One Shots

Sherlock-Fresh Dirt and Old Cloth

The evening was foggy.

It was such a simple area, with a simple setting.

Yet the surroundings could be interpreted so many ways.

The darkness was not inviting.

The fog was cold and unforgiving.

It was a night where horrors ran free.

A slender man pushed the gate aside slowly. It's rusted hinges shrieked in protest, but he continued on, ignoring the noise.

'My love, don't go into my vale,

It is not I that you will hail.'

His footsteps made no sound on the mossy stones that made up the path beneath his feet.

'A maiden came, from darkened wood,

She stands where I myself once stood.'

He gracefully wound between the obstacles in his way.

'With hair of starlight, eyes of coal,

Sweet maiden's face, a frozen soul.'

Grey tombstones rose on all sides, like strange shrubs that only grew where death permeated the very dirt.

'Still, in her eyes a fire is lit.

Upon my throne, there she does sit.'

His creeping progress came to a halt.

'Her smile is cruel, her eyes are sharp.

They lead right to her cold, dark heart.'

Glittering eyes flickered below dark, brooding eyebrows.

'So do not go into my vale,

It is not I that you will hail.'

Pale, spidery fingers spread out as the man raised his hands, palms downward.

'She cuts off all that are in need,

She makes them hurt, she makes them bleed.'

The man began to chant in a deep, almost growling voice. The words were of a language long gone, a language that none of mankind except for a select few even knew of.

'The lonely, cold and saddened poor.

They get sent out the dark back door.'

He fell silent, his hands glowing softly with a light blue light.

''I clean the streets,' is what she'd say,

If you ask what is down that way.'

The scent of fresh dirt began to rise to his nose.

'But if you take that road by dare,

You'll find that death itself is there.'

The glow died down as the sounds of scrabbling hands began to float through the mist.

'Please do not go into my vale,

it is not I that you will hail.'

The man's still outstretched fingers brushed something scratchy, like burlap.

'This woman must be taken down,

For she has stolen this king's crown.'

"Come to me, my friends." The man called, his voice ringing out confidently in the dark night.

'Strange magic seals her queenly kind,

But there's a chink that one must find.'

He was soon surrounded by a horde of creatures so gruesome, they would make even the most hardened knights and soldiers tremble in fear.

'Until she's gone, don't risk your life,

the vale with danger, now is rife.'

"What...what are you doing?" A second voice questioned, quavering with terror.

'Could be a month, could be a year.

So do not go back home, my dear.'

The tall, dark haired man froze, registering surprise at the speaker. "John, you shouldn't be here."

'You must not go into my vale,

Death is all that you will hail.'

The blond teen stepped into view, his face stricken with horror at the monsters standing around his friend.

"Sherlock, you can't do this, please! It's madness!"

The poem returned to it's beginning, echoing slightly as it pounded into the tall man's mind.

"She has done too much. Now she must pay the price for dethroning the noble house of Holmes."

"Sherlock, that was years ago! Why only attack now?" John pleaded.

"She has had her time of repentance!" Sherlock Holmes rounded, facing his horde with an insane smile.

"So you brought the dead to life?" John tried to reason with the man who he had once looked up to. The man who had been his friend.

"I have brought back my forefathers to defend their name, as they well should."

"Necromancy is a dark art, Sherlock. It will kill you."

Sherlock laughed madly. "Then I shall take the foul witch with me." He turned again, walking briskly out of the ancient cemetery.

John whimpered involuntarily as the undead soldiers began to march past him.

"Sherlock, stop." He tried again.

"I will stop when her head is on my wall."

"You won't live long enough to see it!" The boy tried.

Sherlock stopped and for a moment John thought he had done it. He thought he had convinced the sole heir of the Holmes house to drop this wildly fanatic issue.

"It matters not if I see it, only that I free my people from the clutches of Irene Adler once and for all." Sherlock said quietly, just loud enough for the other man to hear.

"Onward!" He ordered, marching towards the castle that couldn't be seen through the dark fog.

[A/N Necromancy/Ancient Society among modern times AU. I made John younger than Sherlock in this one, and the poem is an original of mine]