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gayalondiel_bakFandom/’Verse: Holmes/ACD verse AU crossover with HG Wells’ War of the Worlds
Challenge: watsons_woes July prompts challenge
Title: Dashing Hopes for Our Deliverance
Character: Watson
Length: c.1900 words
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: n/a
Warnings: Crossover!crack. Character death, alien invasion.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain and are the creation of the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. War of the Worlds was created by HG Wells and the quotations and inspiration used in writing this piece came from the Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds adaptation. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Watson is away from London when the invasion comes, and has to hurry back in the hope of finding Holmes.
A/N: Er. There's no excuse. The image just grabbed me and then I had to go with it. I will try hard not to make every single prompt fic (a) crackfic (b) deathfic (c) both of the above. I promise to try.
Some phrases are filched from Jeff Wayne who filched them from HG Wells. Also Col. Burton's first name is, of course Richard.
Master prompt post
July 3. The Hospital Ship by W. H. Littlejohn
On the night of 22nd August, Watson was in Yorkshire, at the bedside of Col. Burton, a fellow officer from the Afghan campaign. Burton, having survived battle, campaign and long desert marches, had succumbed to a severe case of bronchial pneumonia and was now progressing well through what had proved to be a long recuperation. He had a congenital dislike for physicians of all kinds, but tolerated Watson’s professional concerns on the basis of a long-established friendship, so Watson had made the journey from London to care for him at his country estate.
So it was that they did not see or hear the green falling star when it struck, instead devouring all the information they could from the London papers in the morning.
“I suspect Holmes will be there, trying to see everything that he can,” Watson remarked over his tea.
“It says here that travel to Horsell Common is being restricted to essential traffic only,” said Burton, shaking out the paper with a slight frown. Watson chuckled.
“If anyone can get in there, it’s Holmes.”
“Do you need to return to London?” Burton glanced up and caught Watson’s eye with a perceptive look. Watson shook his head.
“Not just now, old boy. I’ll impose on your hospitality a little longer.”
The afternoon papers brought grimmer news, reports of deaths and a cordon erected around the common, cannon units being moved to the ready. They were in the sitting room digesting that somber news when the telegram from Mycroft Holmes arrived.
RETURN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. ARRANGEMENTS MADE. HE WILL NOT LEAVE WITHOUT YOU. TELL NO-ONE.
Watson frowned down at the slip of paper. It could only mean one thing, and the thought of it sent a thrill of fear through him. Hurriedly he made his excuses and Burton sent for his carriage, promising to send Watson’s things on after him. Watson bit down on the statement that he might not need to bother, but caught his friend by the shoulder.
“Is there anywhere you can go?” he asked, and cast around for more words, but Burton arrested the thought with a crisp nod.
“Like that, is it?” he asked. “Fair enough. You to your duty, Watson, I to mine. Someone must defend the north.”
The train only made it to Hertfordshire. Just outside Potters Bar it gave a lurch, there was a terrible groaning noise, and then the few passengers who had braved the journey towards London let out a chorus of screams as the carriages were tipped from the rails as though something huge had grabbed the train and thrown it. Dazed, Watson scrambled out of the shattered window and looked around.
Before him stood a giant metal structure, a tripod with a spherical canopy at the top. Green lights beamed above it with the appearance of giant demonic eyes. As he watched, tentacular metal arms extended from the canopy to grip the train again and with incredible strength, tip it still further from the rails. Watson dived in the opposite direction and the other passengers scattered. Then something else descended from the hood, something that looked like a long-barrelled gun. He remembered the horrific newspaper report, talking of an invisible ray that triggered human combustion from half a league away. Desperately he called out in warning to the men running in the opposite direction as the Fighting Machine began to move, marching towards the fleeing figures, and then stood transfixed in horror as they burst into flames, one after the other.
He dived for cover, knowing that running would be useless against a creature of that height. A little way away a copse of trees and thistles grew and he buried himself among them, gritting his teeth at the pain of the scratches and hoping against hope that he had avoided the machine’s gaze. Even now he could not bring himself to consider the term “Martian”, despite the evidence of his own eyes.
Watson held his breath for what felt like hours. He watched the Fighting Machine patrol the fields, eliminating anyone it found, and then stride away into the distance, and still he lay, frozen in fear. As darkness fell he saw a glow on the horizon, to the south. London was burning.
Holmes.
HE WILL NOT LEAVE WITHOUT YOU.
Surely by now that would not be true. Holmes was a practical man, and Mycroft easily his match in stubbornness. He could not have remained in London under so great a danger.
Nevertheless, Watson had to know. He rolled from the bushes, one arm over his face to protect his eyes from thorns, and then ignoring his minor wounds began the long walk towards Baker Street.
As he suspected, the house was deserted when he reached it in the cold dawn. Mrs Hudson had long fled. The hearth was stone cold and there was no indication that anyone had been there for many hours. Nor was there a sign of anyone on the streets, even though Watson had half-expected to find Wiggins and some of his lads laying wait for anyone who would pay for help.
He wondered briefly what help he thought they would have to offer anyone.
The table, unusually, had been swept clean of papers, save a single sheet of letter paper. Watson picked it up and found a single line of Holmes’ scrawl.
Victoria dock. I will find you there.
Watson was, by this time, intolerably weary, aching from the long walk, the continuous hiding, the terror that had become his constant companion so quickly. He had not slept and did not expect to until his body would no longer hold him conscious. But no matter. Holmes had called for him, and he would go.
The city seemed an empty shell of its former self. Buildings were blackened and some still smouldered, and here and there stone and iron crumbled away as though struck by a mighty force that had now passed on. He headed south to follow the river and saw occasional men and women, some stumbling, some sitting bereft and confused among the bodies lining the streets. In a doorway children huddled, well-dressed but dusty and battered. Seeing them and knowing there was nothing he could offer was the hardest thing in the world, but one time he tried to approach a young girl only to find her fleeing from him with a cry. Windows were smashed everywhere from looters who had swept through in the wake of the Fighting Machines, anarchy taking hold before the end had even made itself complete.
Along the course of the river there were more people, moving east with a single purpose in their minds. Watson joined the throng and soon came others, strangers all, united in common suffering. Some carried boxes and bundles of valuables, others clutched to the hands of their children and still others walked alone with only the clothes on their backs, weary and desolate but refusing to stop. The rich rubbed shoulders with beggars and outcasts. Dogs snarled and whined, the horses’ bits were covered with foam, and here and there were wounded soldiers, as helpless as the rest. They marched as one for hours, watching the shadows of tripods on the horizons and knowing themselves to be an easy target. And yet they moved, a mass of humans together driving on, unarmed and unprovisioned, with only one goal.
East, and a ship out of England.
Finally Royal Victoria Docks came into view. Fighting dizziness, Watson looked around at the vast crowds fighting and buffeting for a space on the steamer along the dockside. He could not hope to find Holmes in this throng. Enviously he looked up at the already packed ship: straight into a pale gaze that he knew at once.
Holmes began to move, working back towards the gangplank, aiming for the shore and Watson. He watched, helpless, knowing nothing he said or did from here would stop his friend. He thought he saw Mycroft behind him, reaching out to waylay his progress, but Holmes shrugged him off easily and began to fight in earnest.
At that moment, the gangplank was raised and the steamer began to move away. Those on the shore let out a cry of anguish that filled Watson’s ears, but he could only comprehend the look of despair on Holmes’ face their gazes locked once more. He forced himself to smile, knowing that at least Holmes, now, would be safe.
And then he saw something behind the steamer that took his breath away.
On the landward horizon appeared the silhouette of a Fighting Machine. Another came, and another, taking their places in the water and blocking the way of the steamer. The crowd on the ship and the dock began to scream in a union of panic, and Watson too felt cold chills. Between the steamer and the Fighting Machines lay a single vessel. A silent grey ironclad, HMS Thunder Child.
The ironclad too began to move, west along the river away from the Machines. And then, with a sudden deafening roar and whoosh of spray it swung around and drove at full speed towards the waiting Martians. Green lights shone from their hoods as they targeted the new threat but she was fast, and deadly, cannons blazing hot as she charged them and collided hard with the central Fighting Machine. It crashed down in a storm of water, smoke and fire. Immediately the other two machines raised their heat rays and melted the Thunder Child’s heart of iron and oak. She foundered and was lost, and the chorus of cheers that had arisen on shore as the Machine tumbled to its doom muted and was silent once more.
Watson only had eyes for the small steamer. He could no longer see Holmes but could almost feel his presence, stretching far from him. The captain had not missed his opportunity and as Thunder Child made her sacrifice, the steamer slipped between the Martians and drove at full tilt towards the horizon. Watson could feel his hear hammering in his chest. Holmes would be safe, he would live, he was going to live. He had to live.
And then, just as they thought the steamer safe, the Machine nearest to it turned and, with a flash of green light and white heat, set the steamer afire in a single shot. Still it drove on, careening out of control, red and green and white flashing in the air around it and repeating in the eyes of the now-silent crowd on the dockside. Across the water they heard the screams of the passengers, the red flames engulfing the ship, and then all too suddenly it was gone, lost in the white waves of the sea, and silence fell.
Watson fell to his knees, exhaustion and despair finally claiming him. The two Fighting Machines emitted an awful cry the like of which he had never heard, and around him people screamed and ran and buildings began to burst into terrible flame. Red, green, white.
But Watson did not move, could not move. Where would he go? There was no-one now to fight for, to look for. London was a shell of destruction. The Thunder Child and the steamer had vanished forever, taking with them man’s last hope of victory. The leaden sky was lit by green flashes, cylinder following cylinder, and no one and nothing was left now to fight them. The Earth belonged to the Martians.
And Holmes was dead.
Challenge: watsons_woes July prompts challenge
Title: Dashing Hopes for Our Deliverance
Character: Watson
Length: c.1900 words
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: n/a
Warnings: Crossover!crack. Character death, alien invasion.
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain and are the creation of the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. War of the Worlds was created by HG Wells and the quotations and inspiration used in writing this piece came from the Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds adaptation. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Watson is away from London when the invasion comes, and has to hurry back in the hope of finding Holmes.
A/N: Er. There's no excuse. The image just grabbed me and then I had to go with it. I will try hard not to make every single prompt fic (a) crackfic (b) deathfic (c) both of the above. I promise to try.
Some phrases are filched from Jeff Wayne who filched them from HG Wells. Also Col. Burton's first name is, of course Richard.
Master prompt post
July 3. The Hospital Ship by W. H. Littlejohn
On the night of 22nd August, Watson was in Yorkshire, at the bedside of Col. Burton, a fellow officer from the Afghan campaign. Burton, having survived battle, campaign and long desert marches, had succumbed to a severe case of bronchial pneumonia and was now progressing well through what had proved to be a long recuperation. He had a congenital dislike for physicians of all kinds, but tolerated Watson’s professional concerns on the basis of a long-established friendship, so Watson had made the journey from London to care for him at his country estate.
So it was that they did not see or hear the green falling star when it struck, instead devouring all the information they could from the London papers in the morning.
“I suspect Holmes will be there, trying to see everything that he can,” Watson remarked over his tea.
“It says here that travel to Horsell Common is being restricted to essential traffic only,” said Burton, shaking out the paper with a slight frown. Watson chuckled.
“If anyone can get in there, it’s Holmes.”
“Do you need to return to London?” Burton glanced up and caught Watson’s eye with a perceptive look. Watson shook his head.
“Not just now, old boy. I’ll impose on your hospitality a little longer.”
The afternoon papers brought grimmer news, reports of deaths and a cordon erected around the common, cannon units being moved to the ready. They were in the sitting room digesting that somber news when the telegram from Mycroft Holmes arrived.
RETURN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. ARRANGEMENTS MADE. HE WILL NOT LEAVE WITHOUT YOU. TELL NO-ONE.
Watson frowned down at the slip of paper. It could only mean one thing, and the thought of it sent a thrill of fear through him. Hurriedly he made his excuses and Burton sent for his carriage, promising to send Watson’s things on after him. Watson bit down on the statement that he might not need to bother, but caught his friend by the shoulder.
“Is there anywhere you can go?” he asked, and cast around for more words, but Burton arrested the thought with a crisp nod.
“Like that, is it?” he asked. “Fair enough. You to your duty, Watson, I to mine. Someone must defend the north.”
The train only made it to Hertfordshire. Just outside Potters Bar it gave a lurch, there was a terrible groaning noise, and then the few passengers who had braved the journey towards London let out a chorus of screams as the carriages were tipped from the rails as though something huge had grabbed the train and thrown it. Dazed, Watson scrambled out of the shattered window and looked around.
Before him stood a giant metal structure, a tripod with a spherical canopy at the top. Green lights beamed above it with the appearance of giant demonic eyes. As he watched, tentacular metal arms extended from the canopy to grip the train again and with incredible strength, tip it still further from the rails. Watson dived in the opposite direction and the other passengers scattered. Then something else descended from the hood, something that looked like a long-barrelled gun. He remembered the horrific newspaper report, talking of an invisible ray that triggered human combustion from half a league away. Desperately he called out in warning to the men running in the opposite direction as the Fighting Machine began to move, marching towards the fleeing figures, and then stood transfixed in horror as they burst into flames, one after the other.
He dived for cover, knowing that running would be useless against a creature of that height. A little way away a copse of trees and thistles grew and he buried himself among them, gritting his teeth at the pain of the scratches and hoping against hope that he had avoided the machine’s gaze. Even now he could not bring himself to consider the term “Martian”, despite the evidence of his own eyes.
Watson held his breath for what felt like hours. He watched the Fighting Machine patrol the fields, eliminating anyone it found, and then stride away into the distance, and still he lay, frozen in fear. As darkness fell he saw a glow on the horizon, to the south. London was burning.
Holmes.
HE WILL NOT LEAVE WITHOUT YOU.
Surely by now that would not be true. Holmes was a practical man, and Mycroft easily his match in stubbornness. He could not have remained in London under so great a danger.
Nevertheless, Watson had to know. He rolled from the bushes, one arm over his face to protect his eyes from thorns, and then ignoring his minor wounds began the long walk towards Baker Street.
As he suspected, the house was deserted when he reached it in the cold dawn. Mrs Hudson had long fled. The hearth was stone cold and there was no indication that anyone had been there for many hours. Nor was there a sign of anyone on the streets, even though Watson had half-expected to find Wiggins and some of his lads laying wait for anyone who would pay for help.
He wondered briefly what help he thought they would have to offer anyone.
The table, unusually, had been swept clean of papers, save a single sheet of letter paper. Watson picked it up and found a single line of Holmes’ scrawl.
Victoria dock. I will find you there.
Watson was, by this time, intolerably weary, aching from the long walk, the continuous hiding, the terror that had become his constant companion so quickly. He had not slept and did not expect to until his body would no longer hold him conscious. But no matter. Holmes had called for him, and he would go.
The city seemed an empty shell of its former self. Buildings were blackened and some still smouldered, and here and there stone and iron crumbled away as though struck by a mighty force that had now passed on. He headed south to follow the river and saw occasional men and women, some stumbling, some sitting bereft and confused among the bodies lining the streets. In a doorway children huddled, well-dressed but dusty and battered. Seeing them and knowing there was nothing he could offer was the hardest thing in the world, but one time he tried to approach a young girl only to find her fleeing from him with a cry. Windows were smashed everywhere from looters who had swept through in the wake of the Fighting Machines, anarchy taking hold before the end had even made itself complete.
Along the course of the river there were more people, moving east with a single purpose in their minds. Watson joined the throng and soon came others, strangers all, united in common suffering. Some carried boxes and bundles of valuables, others clutched to the hands of their children and still others walked alone with only the clothes on their backs, weary and desolate but refusing to stop. The rich rubbed shoulders with beggars and outcasts. Dogs snarled and whined, the horses’ bits were covered with foam, and here and there were wounded soldiers, as helpless as the rest. They marched as one for hours, watching the shadows of tripods on the horizons and knowing themselves to be an easy target. And yet they moved, a mass of humans together driving on, unarmed and unprovisioned, with only one goal.
East, and a ship out of England.
Finally Royal Victoria Docks came into view. Fighting dizziness, Watson looked around at the vast crowds fighting and buffeting for a space on the steamer along the dockside. He could not hope to find Holmes in this throng. Enviously he looked up at the already packed ship: straight into a pale gaze that he knew at once.
Holmes began to move, working back towards the gangplank, aiming for the shore and Watson. He watched, helpless, knowing nothing he said or did from here would stop his friend. He thought he saw Mycroft behind him, reaching out to waylay his progress, but Holmes shrugged him off easily and began to fight in earnest.
At that moment, the gangplank was raised and the steamer began to move away. Those on the shore let out a cry of anguish that filled Watson’s ears, but he could only comprehend the look of despair on Holmes’ face their gazes locked once more. He forced himself to smile, knowing that at least Holmes, now, would be safe.
And then he saw something behind the steamer that took his breath away.
On the landward horizon appeared the silhouette of a Fighting Machine. Another came, and another, taking their places in the water and blocking the way of the steamer. The crowd on the ship and the dock began to scream in a union of panic, and Watson too felt cold chills. Between the steamer and the Fighting Machines lay a single vessel. A silent grey ironclad, HMS Thunder Child.
The ironclad too began to move, west along the river away from the Machines. And then, with a sudden deafening roar and whoosh of spray it swung around and drove at full speed towards the waiting Martians. Green lights shone from their hoods as they targeted the new threat but she was fast, and deadly, cannons blazing hot as she charged them and collided hard with the central Fighting Machine. It crashed down in a storm of water, smoke and fire. Immediately the other two machines raised their heat rays and melted the Thunder Child’s heart of iron and oak. She foundered and was lost, and the chorus of cheers that had arisen on shore as the Machine tumbled to its doom muted and was silent once more.
Watson only had eyes for the small steamer. He could no longer see Holmes but could almost feel his presence, stretching far from him. The captain had not missed his opportunity and as Thunder Child made her sacrifice, the steamer slipped between the Martians and drove at full tilt towards the horizon. Watson could feel his hear hammering in his chest. Holmes would be safe, he would live, he was going to live. He had to live.
And then, just as they thought the steamer safe, the Machine nearest to it turned and, with a flash of green light and white heat, set the steamer afire in a single shot. Still it drove on, careening out of control, red and green and white flashing in the air around it and repeating in the eyes of the now-silent crowd on the dockside. Across the water they heard the screams of the passengers, the red flames engulfing the ship, and then all too suddenly it was gone, lost in the white waves of the sea, and silence fell.
Watson fell to his knees, exhaustion and despair finally claiming him. The two Fighting Machines emitted an awful cry the like of which he had never heard, and around him people screamed and ran and buildings began to burst into terrible flame. Red, green, white.
But Watson did not move, could not move. Where would he go? There was no-one now to fight for, to look for. London was a shell of destruction. The Thunder Child and the steamer had vanished forever, taking with them man’s last hope of victory. The leaden sky was lit by green flashes, cylinder following cylinder, and no one and nothing was left now to fight them. The Earth belonged to the Martians.
And Holmes was dead.
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no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-03 10:55 pm (UTC)Stunning crack, maybe? It's certainly not sensible fic...
Over graves in waves defiled....
Date: 2011-07-03 11:20 pm (UTC)Re: Over graves in waves defiled....
Date: 2011-07-04 07:50 pm (UTC)Re: Over graves in waves defiled....
Date: 2011-07-05 11:51 am (UTC)Then again, I defy anyone to listen to those last words by Burton (and the crescendo to the martian war cry) and NOT get chills.
Re: Over graves in waves defiled....
Date: 2011-07-05 08:44 pm (UTC)I had a long conversation with someone about a sequel to this piece which I may do just so I can have halfmad!Watson meet the Artilleryman...
Re: Over graves in waves defiled....
Date: 2011-07-05 11:13 pm (UTC)Ugh, JD as the artilleryman? We had Michael Falzone. The man is a fuckin' god. (he was also scaramouche in We Will Rock You and is an outstanding performer)
Unfortunately we also had Shannon noll as the preacher, but hey, at least I got to see him get punched out and eaten
Mate of mine and I were tossing ideas of doing the whole damned thing in Holmesverse. It calls. It calllllllsssssss
mine, btw :P (http://shkinkmeme.taleya.net/viewstory.php?sid=32)
no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-04 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 10:04 pm (UTC)