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Fic! Lewis
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lewis_challenge
Title: Angels
Characters: Lewis, Hathaway
Genre: AU
Rating: Teen (there is some death but occurs offscreen)
Wordcount: 1450
Warnings: ...sort of darkfic, I guess - see prompt.
Prompt:
In 4x01 Dead of Winter (guess which episode I just watched!), Lewis makes a crack about being glad Hathaway is on their side after he rattles off some statistics about suicide notes. What if he's not?
Can be either completely AU Lewis hunting Hathaway or Hathaway killing in his off time (a la Dexter) and enjoying watching his kills get put on someone else or just go cold. I've seen this done a few times in the Sherlock fandom and it begs to be written for Lewis.
by maekala
Summary: James isn’t on anyone’s side
Notes: (NB I have presumed that one series of the show spans a year or so, so if I refer to the first year, that basically means series one etc etc)
Thanks to seiyaharris for the beta and for giving me ideas for a follow up!
-- -- --
There are always unsolved cases, always families who never get peace. Sometimes, it’s a hit and run (and Lewis knows how lucky he is, that all those years later, they found out who it was), sometimes there’s no obvious suspect and no evidence to guide them either way. Sometimes, the murderer knows what they’re doing a little too well.
They’re in a churchyard, standing over a teenager lying on her back in the grass. She’s pale and still, and her hands have been placed palms together on her chest, so it looks like she’s praying.
Lewis already knows that when the post mortem is over, it will say that the victim was drugged and then suffocated, and that there are no signs of a struggle, no signs of sexual assault, no DNA. He knows that when they look into the victim’s background, they’ll find out she was on the streets, that she had nothing and no-one. A bleak life followed by a bleak death.
This is the seventh teenager they’ve found like this. They call them Angels at the station. The person who called in the first one was panicking, and in the phone call she said ‘he’s praying, like an angel’, and it stuck. They’ve turned up once a year for the last five years, except for two years and four years ago, when they got extra. They all know that serial killers are supposed to escalate, but this one doesn’t seem to. The second killings in those years made them all nervous, but after that things went back to normal.
Whatever normal is with this case.
They’ve never released details of the way the bodies are positioned (and somehow it’s never been leaked), so the press haven’t picked up that these are serial killings. Without that, the teenagers don’t usually get more than a mention or two in the local press.
He’s a clever bastard, this killer, and Lewis hates him all the more for it.
--
It’s the winter that does it. The cold and the wet and the way everything is grey. James finds that no matter how much he struggles against it, the blackness descends, and there’s only one thing he can do to get rid of it.
It’s like pressure in his head, pushing out towards his eyes. It hurts and it leaves his brain feeling misshapen and manipulated. And just before he gives in, it’s worst of all, like his spinal cord is going to snap under the strain.
And then when he gives in, it’s all okay. He stops feeling like there’s always thunder approaching, and the pressure goes away, and he can think again, he’s better, a better police officer and a better person. And that, that is why he can’t stop. Because of the way he feels afterwards.
He knows that people like him are supposed to start off torturing animals, hurting cats and dogs, but he never felt the need. He doesn’t really know how he realised that the only way he could feel better was to take a life, but he suspects it’s just yet more evidence that he’s missing something that the rest of humanity don’t even know they have.
Years ago, he thought that the first one would be the only one. He thought that he could take a scraggly, skinny prostitute off the streets and kill her (he hates himself for thinking about it, but he went to London because he knew he’d be more likely to get away with it there), and that would be it. He’d be fine.
James considers this the peak of his ability to lie to himself. It wasn’t – isn’t – fine. It will never be fine, because James keeps killing people, and he’s going to keep on until someone stops him.
Oh, he gets away with it, alright, no doubt about that. He’s always been careful, since the first one, and he’s barely needed to refine the process. He didn’t place her arms the way he does now, so no-one’s ever even connected her to the others.
The story – if there was one – never made it to the national press, so James doesn’t even know her name. He sometimes wonders if there’s anyone else who remembers her at all.
--
He held out for a year after that, and through time and circumstance and convenience, he ended up looking in Oxford, and he has done ever since. And unless something bad happens, something like Will or going back to Crevecouer, he holds out for a year in between. He copes. His past, as ever, is his weakness.
He tries to keep to the outskirts of town, where it’s less likely to come to him and Lewis, but this year they want to get a result, so the investigation has more manpower. It’s the first time he’s going to be investigating himself.
The case won’t be solved this year. It might never be solved. There’s no forensic evidence to link him to the murders, and no reason for anyone to suspect him. All he has to do is look convincingly diligent until the trail is deemed to have gone cold enough to let the case lie dormant for another year.
--
James looks at the victim lying on Doctor Hobson’s table, and wonders why he doesn’t feel guilty about this the way he does about his other failings. This, surely, is the worst of all, and should leave him horrified, wretched, desperate to confess, but instead he just feels indifferent.
In a way, it’s never been about them - he only finds out their names after the fact – it’s always been about him. It’s a selfish desire, wanting to take another life to make your own easier, and James just isn’t strong enough to resist it anymore. Doctor Hobson explains the post mortem findings to him, but there are no surprises. No forensics, victim drugged and then suffocated, no signs of a struggle.
Sometimes, James has found, he’s been kinder to them in death than anyone ever was in life. He has an instinct for finding the hopeless and the desolate, the ones who won’t fight him. He wonders sometimes if they can tell what he wants when he approaches them, but he never asks. If he started talking to them, they might well talk him out of it, and that would make things far too difficult.
--
He takes the information back to Lewis, and of course he’s not surprised. He considers it carefully, all the same. “Why do you think he places them like that?” He asks, and James’ eyes flick over to the photos on the board.
“Is it a religious thing?”
James frowns, putting on an act for their usual back-and-forth about God. “Even if it is, God’s not to blame.”
”I know that.” Lewis protests. “It’s our murderer’s fault, no-one else’s. I just thought you might have an informed opinion.”
“He probably is religious, in some way. I think it’s gone on too long for the placement to completely be a decoy. Maybe…maybe he thinks God has failed him in some way, and this is his response. Or maybe he wants them to have peace.”
Lewis rolls his eyes. “So he thinks he’s helping them?”
James shrugs. “You asked for my opinion, sir.”
Lewis looks at the board, and he’s quiet for a long time. The board does that to everyone, James has noticed. Seven photos, seven names, and when he looks at them all lined up like that (a mixture of homeless, addicted and selling themselves), it seems like a breathtakingly cynical thing that he’s done.
It’s even more cynical to consider what he’ll do in the future (go further out of town, maybe leave their arms by their sides), rather than thinking about trying to stop himself next time the blackness descends.
He wonders what would happen if he confessed all to Lewis, if he told him exactly what evil there was in his heart.
He realises that he’s just been staring at the board, not really focusing on it, and when he turns away, Lewis is looking at him thoughtfully.
“If you were going to do something like this – kill all these people – is this how you’d do it?”
James’ heart stops beating, he’s sure, and he struggles to keep an even expression on his face.
“Yes.” He says after a moment or two, making a show of thinking about it. “Something like this.”
Lewis nods slowly, and James realises that Lewis suspects him, at least. At least.
“Well then.” Lewis says calmly, as if this is a normal conversation and not the beginning of the end. “It’s a good thing you’re on our side.”
lewis_challenge Title: Angels
Characters: Lewis, Hathaway
Genre: AU
Rating: Teen (there is some death but occurs offscreen)
Wordcount: 1450
Warnings: ...sort of darkfic, I guess - see prompt.
Prompt:
In 4x01 Dead of Winter (guess which episode I just watched!), Lewis makes a crack about being glad Hathaway is on their side after he rattles off some statistics about suicide notes. What if he's not?
Can be either completely AU Lewis hunting Hathaway or Hathaway killing in his off time (a la Dexter) and enjoying watching his kills get put on someone else or just go cold. I've seen this done a few times in the Sherlock fandom and it begs to be written for Lewis.
by maekala
Summary: James isn’t on anyone’s side
Notes: (NB I have presumed that one series of the show spans a year or so, so if I refer to the first year, that basically means series one etc etc)
Thanks to seiyaharris for the beta and for giving me ideas for a follow up!
-- -- --
There are always unsolved cases, always families who never get peace. Sometimes, it’s a hit and run (and Lewis knows how lucky he is, that all those years later, they found out who it was), sometimes there’s no obvious suspect and no evidence to guide them either way. Sometimes, the murderer knows what they’re doing a little too well.
They’re in a churchyard, standing over a teenager lying on her back in the grass. She’s pale and still, and her hands have been placed palms together on her chest, so it looks like she’s praying.
Lewis already knows that when the post mortem is over, it will say that the victim was drugged and then suffocated, and that there are no signs of a struggle, no signs of sexual assault, no DNA. He knows that when they look into the victim’s background, they’ll find out she was on the streets, that she had nothing and no-one. A bleak life followed by a bleak death.
This is the seventh teenager they’ve found like this. They call them Angels at the station. The person who called in the first one was panicking, and in the phone call she said ‘he’s praying, like an angel’, and it stuck. They’ve turned up once a year for the last five years, except for two years and four years ago, when they got extra. They all know that serial killers are supposed to escalate, but this one doesn’t seem to. The second killings in those years made them all nervous, but after that things went back to normal.
Whatever normal is with this case.
They’ve never released details of the way the bodies are positioned (and somehow it’s never been leaked), so the press haven’t picked up that these are serial killings. Without that, the teenagers don’t usually get more than a mention or two in the local press.
He’s a clever bastard, this killer, and Lewis hates him all the more for it.
--
It’s the winter that does it. The cold and the wet and the way everything is grey. James finds that no matter how much he struggles against it, the blackness descends, and there’s only one thing he can do to get rid of it.
It’s like pressure in his head, pushing out towards his eyes. It hurts and it leaves his brain feeling misshapen and manipulated. And just before he gives in, it’s worst of all, like his spinal cord is going to snap under the strain.
And then when he gives in, it’s all okay. He stops feeling like there’s always thunder approaching, and the pressure goes away, and he can think again, he’s better, a better police officer and a better person. And that, that is why he can’t stop. Because of the way he feels afterwards.
He knows that people like him are supposed to start off torturing animals, hurting cats and dogs, but he never felt the need. He doesn’t really know how he realised that the only way he could feel better was to take a life, but he suspects it’s just yet more evidence that he’s missing something that the rest of humanity don’t even know they have.
Years ago, he thought that the first one would be the only one. He thought that he could take a scraggly, skinny prostitute off the streets and kill her (he hates himself for thinking about it, but he went to London because he knew he’d be more likely to get away with it there), and that would be it. He’d be fine.
James considers this the peak of his ability to lie to himself. It wasn’t – isn’t – fine. It will never be fine, because James keeps killing people, and he’s going to keep on until someone stops him.
Oh, he gets away with it, alright, no doubt about that. He’s always been careful, since the first one, and he’s barely needed to refine the process. He didn’t place her arms the way he does now, so no-one’s ever even connected her to the others.
The story – if there was one – never made it to the national press, so James doesn’t even know her name. He sometimes wonders if there’s anyone else who remembers her at all.
--
He held out for a year after that, and through time and circumstance and convenience, he ended up looking in Oxford, and he has done ever since. And unless something bad happens, something like Will or going back to Crevecouer, he holds out for a year in between. He copes. His past, as ever, is his weakness.
He tries to keep to the outskirts of town, where it’s less likely to come to him and Lewis, but this year they want to get a result, so the investigation has more manpower. It’s the first time he’s going to be investigating himself.
The case won’t be solved this year. It might never be solved. There’s no forensic evidence to link him to the murders, and no reason for anyone to suspect him. All he has to do is look convincingly diligent until the trail is deemed to have gone cold enough to let the case lie dormant for another year.
--
James looks at the victim lying on Doctor Hobson’s table, and wonders why he doesn’t feel guilty about this the way he does about his other failings. This, surely, is the worst of all, and should leave him horrified, wretched, desperate to confess, but instead he just feels indifferent.
In a way, it’s never been about them - he only finds out their names after the fact – it’s always been about him. It’s a selfish desire, wanting to take another life to make your own easier, and James just isn’t strong enough to resist it anymore. Doctor Hobson explains the post mortem findings to him, but there are no surprises. No forensics, victim drugged and then suffocated, no signs of a struggle.
Sometimes, James has found, he’s been kinder to them in death than anyone ever was in life. He has an instinct for finding the hopeless and the desolate, the ones who won’t fight him. He wonders sometimes if they can tell what he wants when he approaches them, but he never asks. If he started talking to them, they might well talk him out of it, and that would make things far too difficult.
--
He takes the information back to Lewis, and of course he’s not surprised. He considers it carefully, all the same. “Why do you think he places them like that?” He asks, and James’ eyes flick over to the photos on the board.
“Is it a religious thing?”
James frowns, putting on an act for their usual back-and-forth about God. “Even if it is, God’s not to blame.”
”I know that.” Lewis protests. “It’s our murderer’s fault, no-one else’s. I just thought you might have an informed opinion.”
“He probably is religious, in some way. I think it’s gone on too long for the placement to completely be a decoy. Maybe…maybe he thinks God has failed him in some way, and this is his response. Or maybe he wants them to have peace.”
Lewis rolls his eyes. “So he thinks he’s helping them?”
James shrugs. “You asked for my opinion, sir.”
Lewis looks at the board, and he’s quiet for a long time. The board does that to everyone, James has noticed. Seven photos, seven names, and when he looks at them all lined up like that (a mixture of homeless, addicted and selling themselves), it seems like a breathtakingly cynical thing that he’s done.
It’s even more cynical to consider what he’ll do in the future (go further out of town, maybe leave their arms by their sides), rather than thinking about trying to stop himself next time the blackness descends.
He wonders what would happen if he confessed all to Lewis, if he told him exactly what evil there was in his heart.
He realises that he’s just been staring at the board, not really focusing on it, and when he turns away, Lewis is looking at him thoughtfully.
“If you were going to do something like this – kill all these people – is this how you’d do it?”
James’ heart stops beating, he’s sure, and he struggles to keep an even expression on his face.
“Yes.” He says after a moment or two, making a show of thinking about it. “Something like this.”
Lewis nods slowly, and James realises that Lewis suspects him, at least. At least.
“Well then.” Lewis says calmly, as if this is a normal conversation and not the beginning of the end. “It’s a good thing you’re on our side.”