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luminoustico · 7 years

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@mizjoely asked for #2 from this drabble list: “Can you shut up for five minutes, please?”

So, @conchepcion , @stlgeekgirl , @dmollyc , @limajoro , @glitterkitty4ever , @introspectivenavelgazer and anyone else who read the first bit of this crack Mummy AU, and wanted it continued, look below.

Warnings for: silliness, SWP (story without plot) and a bunch of favourite scenes from the movie shoved together into one oneshot.

Passenger ship, the River Nile, Egypt, 1926

If he allowed the conventions of society to define his standards, Molly Hooper was not a pretty woman. Compared to the beauty shown in film reels, she was plain and superficially forgettable.

Yet, she stood before him, eyebrows raised up towards her hairline, her mouth pressed into a thin line, with her hair combed back into a bun at the low of her neck, he found her to be uncommonly pretty.

“A deductive tool?” Miss Hooper gathered up her book and magnifying glass, turning on her heel. She stormed down the way of the barge, towards her quarters. Sherlock stared after her.

It was her eyes that had done it. Made him accept her offer, to travel with them (for that was what she had been offering, from the moment she’d set foot in the prison, an offer driven by ambition). He did not know what it was about them, nor the how of how they’d caught him so. It was something yet to be deduced, he knew.

“Ow!”

The yelp caught his attention.

Turning, Sherlock watched a set of crates, piled in twos underneath a set of stairs. One of the crates shifted. Sherlock advanced forward. Reaching back behind the crates, he grabbed the scruff of the intruder’s neck and pulled them forward. One of the crates toppled, falling with a hard thud while Sherlock slammed the intruder against the ship’s wall.

“My old friend, Barry Berwick,” he said with a smile. Berwick, still with shaved head and permanently furrowed brow, cocked a grin, wrestling against the grip of Sherlock’s hand, trying to slide out from underneath. Sherlock caught him again, pressing his forearm to Berwick’s chest.

“Now, now. I saw some Americans boarding this ship at the port. New friends?”

“What you---” On Sherlock’s roll of his eyes, Berwick cleared his throat, correcting himself, “What do you mean, Mr ‘olmes? I ain’t -- haven’t -- seen nobody.”

“Lestrade has made friends with those Americans, and they let slip, as did he, their intended location: Hamunaptra. Only two people on this boat have been to Hamunaptra. You are one of them. You’ve never been a man of great intelligence, so I’m sure I can guess the scam. Take their money and lead them out into the desert to rot, correct?”

“No!” Berwick wriggled. “No, Mr ‘olmes, nah! They’re smarter than tha’.”

Sherlock smirked. Amazing that Berwick had managed to cultivate a career as a conman when he failed to lie quite so easily. But then, tourists eager for gold were willing to look past any idiosyncrasies if it meant wealth beyond their wildest dreams. The wildest of tales could contain the largest of plot holes and no-one would blink an eye.

Realising the implication of his words, Berwick sagged against the ship wall.

“These Americans are smart. They’ve only paid me half -- got to get them back to Cairo before I get the full amount.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, stepping back. “A pity for you.”

“You vowed never to go back anyway,” Berwick said after a moment, narrowing his eyes. “That dig -- what you seen -- you said you’d rather be hung than go back.”

“The word is ‘hanged’. Goodbye, Barry.” Gripping Berwick’s shirt, Sherlock dragged him towards the edge of the boat and threw him over.

“Mr ‘olmes!” Berwick spluttered in the water, roaring up at the ship. “Mr ‘olmes!”

Sherlock turned his head at the sound of a scream. Female. Coming from the quarters. Sherlock’s grin faded.

“Miss Hooper.”

He broke into a sprint.

---

On the other side of the River Nile, the Americans gathered horses on the bank, yelling for their colleagues. In the distance, the passenger ship continued to burn.

“I can’t believe it!” Molly gasped, stroking Toby’s wet fur, shaking and furious. She hushed him, taking breathless gasps, the taste of the ocean still on her tongue. “It -- it happened so quickly… we’ve -- we’ve lost everything! The equipment, my tools...”

She shivered, her breath shaking. A hand gently hovered at her shoulder, long fingers brushing over her skin. Glancing up, she watched as Holmes sank into a crouch at her side. His hand trailed down towards her elbow. He helped her to her feet, a touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“HEY! MR ‘OLMES!” Molly and Holmes looked up at the same time. A shaven man, broad-shouldered, stood ankle-deep in the water as the Americans hurried their horses to the shore. “LOOKS LIKE I’VE GOT ALL THE ‘ORSES!”

Holmes slowly walked forward towards the riverbank. His eyes narrowed, staring at the man.

“Hey Berwick!” he shouted finally, in a mocking approximation of the man’s accent. “Looks to me like you’re on the wrong side of the river!”

A look of realisation came over the man. He swore, kicking at the water, turning and hurrying up to the bank. Molly bit back a smile, swallowing her laughter until it was a slight giggle. Hearing her, Holmes grinned. John Watson, Sherlock’s assistant (though he seemed perturbed by the term whenever Holmes used it), rolled his eyes.

“So…” Lestrade said, slumped in the sand, wiping his eyes. “What do we do now?”

---

Finding shelter at a Bedouin trading post, it was with ease that the four slipped into their respective duties. John inspected his gunny-sack, eyeing the small boys and adult men who looked over his weaponry with suspicion, ever the soldier. Miss Hooper set about charming the women of the trading post so much that they ushered her inside and insisted on fitting her a new outfit, free of any charge, and Sherlock sat alone with only Toby as company, idly listening to Lestrade’s one-sided argument about the economy of buying four camels.

“I just want four!” he shouted fruitlessly, as the seller shook his head for the fifth time. “Four! Just---”

“For God’s sake, pay the man Lestrade,” Sherlock called. “We have to be travelling by nightfall at least.”

Lestrade grumbled, fetching out his wallet, snapping it open. With money in his hand, the seller happily handed over the camels. Lestrade glared at Sherlock; shrugging, Sherlock stood and took two of the camels by the reins.

“He offered the camels for free in exchange for Molly. Not on your life obviously, but having just paid that amount of money,” Lestrade grumbled, “tempting.”

At that moment, the flaps of a tent opened behind them, and a train of women hurried out.

“Awfully,” Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow, though his smile faded as he turned to face the tent and the chatter of the veiled women. Miss Hooper was at the back of the crowd, dressed in suitable black. A veil of thin fabric covered the lower half of her face. Her eyes shone warmly.

“Awfully…” Sherlock repeated, softer than before.

Thanking the women, Miss Hooper approached him and Lestrade. Her brown eyes shined, her smile hidden behind the fabric.

“Shall we go?”

Sherlock caught himself, clearing his throat, shifting his weight. “Yes, of course. Here. A camel, for you. We have to get going. I’ll fetch Watson.” He turned on his heels. “Watson!”

---

Hamunaptra, Ancient City of the Dead, Egypt, 1926

Day 1

Though they reached the site first, it was numbers that led to the American expedition gaining the most space for a dig. Miss Hooper had thus decided upon a crevice near the statue of Anubis as their starting point. Sherlock stood before it as she and Lestrade worked. He gazed up at the sand-dusted stone. Berwick, for all his idiocy, was right. He had vowed never to come back.

Sherlock glanced over at Miss Hooper. She saw him and immediately smiled. A genuine, sweet smile while stood underneath a statue carrying a mystery he still didn’t know the answer to. Perhaps he was always destined to return.

Perhaps she had been destined to make him return.

Avoiding her eye, Sherlock turned away, wandering through the ruins.

The American’s camp was mostly run by their Egyptologist and the local diggers they had hired. The Americans themselves were like their government; sat on the sidelines, playing poker on a small trestle table and smoking cigarettes. A toolkit was laid forgotten beside one of the tents. Their attention on the game, Sherlock grabbed the kit and hurried away.

Seeing him return, Miss Hooper grinned. She was working with a rounded mirror, antique and rusted at the edges, shifting it so it consistently caught the glint of the sun. Lestrade, stood opposite her, was doing the same.

“The ancient mirror trick, correct?” Sherlock asked. Miss Hooper’s grin widened.

“Yes, Mr Holmes.” Her eyes narrowed at the kit in his hands. “What’s that?”

“You mentioned you didn’t have any tools. The Americans seem to be overrun with tools, so I thought---” Sherlock sighed, shoving it towards her.

“Oh.” Miss Hooper blushed briefly, the tops of her cheeks going pink, as she gently held the kit in her palm. She unrolled it, glancing over the contents inside. She bit her bottom lip. “Thank you.”

Sherlock dodged past her, hurrying towards John, sitting at their campsite in front of his tent, writing in his journal. Penning the day’s events. A tedious pastime, but they’d had that argument a hundred times.

“Other men buy their women flowers.”

“She’s not my woman, she’s nothing but an aspiring archaeologist too hung up on Bembridge. You’re always telling me to help others.” Sherlock ducked inside his tent, only to find Toby curled up on his sleeping bag. Picking up the creature, he held it between his hands, dropping it inside Miss Hooper’s tent, ignoring the brief catch of her scent in his nostrils sinking into his memory. Toby immediately mewled, shooting out from Miss Hooper’s tent and back into Sherlock’s.

Sherlock glowered, stomping back towards his tent. “And it’s only the men without imagination who buy women flowers, John.”

---

Hamunaptra, Ancient City of the Dead, Egypt, 1926

The second night

Molly worried her bottom lip, her brown eyes flicking up to meet Holmes as he wandered closer to the campfire.

“How’s John?” she asked softly.

“Unconscious, but alive,” Holmes replied, sitting beside her. He rubbed his hands together, holding them to the flames. Molly rested her head against his shoulder, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry it happened,” she murmured.

“We weren’t to know scarabs were wandering around the temple,” Holmes said, an attempt at amusement, but it didn’t really take. “The wounds on his shoulder will heal soon anyway. Lestrade, I forgot to say -- good quick thinking.”

“War taught me a thing or too,” Greg said, leaning back. He grabbed his satchel, opening it. From it, he bought a bottle of wine. “How to appreciate things, for one. Glenlivet, 12 years old. A vintage year, I pride myself on good taste. Anyone fancy a bit?”

“Not really.”

“No,” said Molly, overlapping Holmes’ dry reply.

“Each to their own,” Greg shrugged, swallowing back a gulp of the wine.

Suddenly, Holmes looked around, alert. A split second after him, Molly heard it.

The approaching sound of horse hooves.

Mr Holmes brought out his pistol, standing.

“Stay here,” were his only words. He ran towards the entrance of the city and the sound. Molly was up not a moment later, chasing after him. She heard Greg behind her, calling her name.

“Molly! Stop! Holmes said to stay---”

Hollering sounded. Loud black-clad figures bursting out from the evening on black horses. The Americans scrambled to wake at the sound of the raid, shooting at their attackers. Molly dived behind a column. Greg, holding tightly to his bottle of wine, ducked behind the column next to her. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he brought out a small gun. Gunshots sounded, from both sides. Black-clad attackers fell, diggers scrambled, the Americans screamed as they charged, shooting.

“Hadha yafki!” The yell called over the fighting, authoritative and firm. She frowned, peeking out from behind the column. Holmes was in the middle of the fray, his pistol at his side, staring at the one who had spoken.

They walked forward. A veil covered their mouth. They were smaller in height, leaner than the men who surrounded them, yet they were the one who exuded, demanded, authority.

They pulled back their veil. Tight curly black hair was pulled back into a bun. A woman. She had a striking essence to her, her long face and curved jaw beautiful. Arabic symbols, tattoos, covered the high of her cheeks, underneath dark eyes. A scimitar was at her hip.

“My name is Salama Dey,” she announced to the two camps. Molly walked forwards, down the shallow slope towards Holmes. His hand reached out for her as she reached him. She clasped it tightly, her other hand holding his forearm. She watched the woman, Salama, stare at them and the Americans.

“You have one day to leave this place,” she said, glancing at her troops. She returned to her horse, gripping its reins and mounting it. She gave one final glance over both camps. “We’ll spill no more blood. But heed my warning.”

The woman clicked her tongue, calling in Arabic for her men to follow.

“Proves it!” said one of the Americans, Henderson, square-jawed and blonde. “Seti’s fortune’s gotta be under this sand. No way they’d protect it if it had nothing.”

“Are you truly that idiotic?” Sherlock snapped. “Those people live in the desert. Water is more precious to them than any gold.”

A silence filled the camp. Letting go of Sherlock, Molly headed back up towards the campsite.

“Have to say,” Greg said from behind, following on. “That’s one hell of a woman, that Salama, don’t you think?”

Molly, smiling, rolled her eyes.

As they arrived, Watson, bleary-eyed, stumbled out from his tent. He was topless, his right shoulder swathed in bandages. He gave a slack smile when he saw Molly. She gave one in return, sitting by the fire, stoking it.

“I heard gunfire…”

“A raid,” she explained, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and reaching for a thick volume, flipping it open. “I think it was the Medjai. I’ve read about them before. Warriors, far more skilled beyond any of us. Even you, Mr Watson.”

Watson winced as he sat opposite her, his face reflected yellow by the campfire. “Since our little incident with the scarabs -- or should I say, my incident -- I’m willing to believe that.”

A wine bottle entered both their vision. Molly looked up, instinctively smiling at Greg. His eyes glittered.

“Anyone willing to take that drink now?”

Molly took the wine bottle, gulping it back, passing it on to John. Greg settled opposite them, stretching out on his sleeping mat, crossing his ankles, tucking his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes.

“Rough day.”

---

Hamunaptra, Ancient City of the Dead, Egypt, 1926

The third night

The problems included with including treasure hunters on an archaeological dig were threefold. The first: treasure hunters never stopped long enough to consider the history they were digging into. The second: archaeologists, too delved into history books, were disinclined to believe anything besides what they could see.

The third was more of an inevitability than a problem: when the two cultures came together, as the Americans and Molly Hooper’s party decided to do after the raid, something was bound to go wrong.

Molly gasped, breathless and trembling, frozen against the chamber wall. Mr Burns crawled along on the floor, empty spaces where his eyes and tongue had once been, no tears coming despite the pained wailing.

The mummy, the monster, a skeleton of papyrus and bone, his stolen eyes and tongue moving oddly with the rest of him, alive where the rest was dead. He approached her slowly, intent in his flickering eyes.

“Anck-su-Namun,” he growled, his voice beyond the world.

Molly’s throat went dry.

“Please…” she whispered. The mummy inched closer, and closer. Her eyes flicked towards Mr Burns in her desperation. “Please help me…”

“Molly!” She whipped her head round. Through an entrance, Holmes ran into the dark chamber. He carried his pistol, reaching out for her. “Do you think it’s really necessary to -- Jesus!”

He jumped, shuddering, his grip briefly tightening on her hand as he stared. Breathless, they stared at the slowly advancing mummy.

“Molly! Holmes!” Greg rushed in, the dark was lit orange by the flame of his torch. He stumbled back as the mummy turned on him, roaring and growling, his stolen eyes swivelling. Suddenly, his skeleton burst apart, collapsing to the ground. Sherlock’s pistol smoked.

Molly grabbed his hand tighter.

“Come on!” she yelled, tugging him away, down the labyrinth of corridors. “Move!”

She ran, one hand holding Holmes, the other flailing out for Greg, not caring where she was going. Get away, get hidden---

They stumbled out into the cool desert night, into a line of Medjai. All of them had their rifles aimed at the entrance to the temple, to them. Molly yelped, sinking closer to Holmes. His arm held her waist, glaring at the Medjai.

One of the Medjai pulled down their scarf. Salama’s eyes flashed angrily.

“I warned you,” she said, lowering her rifle, stepping forward. “Leave or die. And because of your arrogance, you have given us all death sentences. This is a creature we’ve feared for 3,000 years.”

The Americans cocked their weapons, but Salama only smiled.

“Your mortal weapons will do him no damage, believe me.” She aimed a hard look at the Americans. “Look what happened to your friend.”

At once, two Medjai came forward, carrying Mr Burns. Molly winced, looking away. Under the moonlight of the camp, his wounds were worse, more horrifying. Henderson and another rushed forward to take him from the Medjai, Henderson cradling him. Burns moaned helplessly in his mind.

“You did this?” Henderson spat.

“The creature did,” Salama said. “And we saved him before he could finish the work. So I tell you again: leave or die. I hope that this time, you obey.”

---

British fort, Cairo, Egypt, 1926

Packing for Molly Hooper was a thankless task. As he threw into her trunk what he could of her now scant possessions, she would take them out. If he tried again, she would take them out again, in between hurriedly scanning pages and pages of history books. Sherlock picked Toby up off the few remaining clothes in the trunk, dropping him outside the bedroom door. Discontented, Toby ran back in, mewling furiously and jumping on the bed.

“Forget it,” Sherlock said, sighing, “I fully intend on obeying Miss Dey.”

“What, while a 3,000-year-old walking, talking corpse threatens to destroy the Earth?” Molly scoffed. “We woke him up, Holmes, we need to stop him!”

“You read the book, Miss Hooper---”

“Fine! I read the book, I released him, and I am going to stop him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you cannot stop a mummy!” Sherlock said. “No mortal weapon can kill him, you heard the woman.”

“Then we’ll find some immortal ones,” Molly replied, snatching her books from his grasp, some of them tumbling to the floor. Molly dived down to her knees, gathering them up to her chest. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but if it’s the only way we can stop him, then that’s the only way we can stop him.”

Sherlock frowned. “Again with the ‘we’.”

“From what I’ve read so far, this curse isn’t going to end well for anyone. Look, here!” She flipped open a thin mummification volume, scratched with inked notes in the margins, settling on a page. She pointed at the Egyptian writing, holding it up to his nose. Sherlock frowned, snatching it from her, reading it himself.

“You see?” Exasperated, Molly rubbed her forehead, slapping her palm on the page so that he was forced to look away, into her eyes. “‘Once the creature has been reborn’,” she recited, “‘his curse will spread until the whole of the Earth is destroyed’---”

“Molly!”

She stopped, startled by his use of her name. Sherlock hesitated to touch her, settling his hand on her upper arm. She’d changed from the black dress of the Bedouin; now she wore a white shirt, a cream desert skirt and her nostrils flared with determination.

“You are talking about saving the world. Not history. Not gaining enough experience in the field to impress Bembridge---”

“I’m not---”

“Saving the world.”

“I raised the mummy. You saw the mummy. You know what he could do.” Her eyes widened, beseeching. “Don’t you? Please, Sherlock. Help me.”

Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his hair. Snaking his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her against his chest, holding her close.

The door opened, and Sherlock jumped away from Molly, looking round at the entrant, Greg, closely followed by Watson.

“What is it?” Molly asked, flicking her gaze towards Sherlock. Greg looked pale, but Watson spoke, face grey with dread.

“There’s something you two need to see.”

Heading towards the closed window, Watson threw open the shutters. Sunlight flooded the room, as well as heat. Flames, fire and hail, poured from the sky.

There was trouble, Sherlock thought, and then there was raising-the-dead kind of trouble.

---

Surviving water turning into blood was one thing. Witnessing the horror of the undead creature Imhotep kissing an asleep Molly Hooper was another. Watson dived forward, rifle raised.

“Get off her.”

Molly, her eyes snapping open, shrieked, shoving away the monster, scrambling off the bed, tumbling to the floor.

Imhotep, his half-skeletal, half-decayed face twisting with a growl, advanced on the three men. Watson fired, again and again, but Imhotep continued forward, hatred in his eyes.

“Uh,” Greg asked, “anyone have ideas?”

“Just one,” Sherlock replied. Turning, he ran into the foyer. Toby lay on the table, tail swishing idly. Grabbing the cat, thankful for the first time of its presence, Sherlock sprinted back into the bedroom.

He grinned at the advancing Imhotep.

“Look what I have!” He held up the wriggling Toby, who stilled at the sight of Imhotep.

Imhotep screamed a primordial roar, a snarl. Toby hissed, screeched, yowling until, all at once, sand engulfed the bedroom, a high wind drawing through the air, as if it might suck them all out into the streets of Cairo---

The window shutters slammed closed.

In the silence, Sherlock looked to Molly.

“Are you okay?”

Molly shrugged. “I’m alright… apart from an undead mummy kissing me.” Her eyes lightened with an idea. “But I do now have a good idea of who can help us. C’mon.”

Following her out of the room, Sherlock smiled despite it all.

---

Museum of Antiquities, Cairo, Egypt, 1926

“You?” Molly jerked to a stop on entering the curator’s office, aghast with surprise at the sight of Salama Dey in whispering, urgent talks with her. Lady Smallwood raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest.

“You cannot tell me you are not surprised, Molly. I told you when you first arrived I would give my life for Egypt. Now, what do you want?”

“The -- the, um, tablets,” Molly answered, blinking away her surprise. “I obviously proved the theory right, at Hamunaptra, that the Book of Dead can bring the dead back to life. But I think, if the black book can do that, then the gold book---”

“The Book of Amun-Ra,” Lady Smallwood said pointedly. Molly nodded.

“Yes. I think that might be able to kill him.”

“Well theorised.” Lady Smallwood stood, fetching a set of keys from her desk drawer. “Come. I’ll lead you to them.”

It was at the top of the steps that they heard it. Soft at first, distant. Chanting, seemingly wordless. As the chanting inched closer, the word formed on the lips of the people, their skin covered in boils and sores.

“Imhotep,” they chanted. “Imhotep---”

“My least favourite plague,” Greg muttered from behind Molly, as they gathered at the window above the city square outside the museum.

“This is it then,” Salama said, her voice filled with dark dread. “The beginning of the end.”

“Not quite yet,” said Greg brightly, earning a glare from the Medjai leader for his troubles. He flashed her a grin in return.

“You can leave the ‘I told you so’ for later,” Watson added, following Molly as she turned on the balls of her feet, hurrying towards the display cases, behind which were fragments of stone tablets. Lady Smallwood swung open the doors, and Molly immediately began to frantically scan the tablets.

“Okay, okay… Bembridge scholars indicate that the Book of Amun-Ra is buried at the base of Anubis, but that’s where we found the black book, so---”

“Looks like the boys of Bembridge were mistaken,” Greg grinned.

“Seems they mixed the books up,” Molly explained, still frantically reading, her finger running along the hieroglyphics. “They got the locations wrong -- so if the black book is inside Anubis, then the golden book…”

“Molly, hurry up!”

“I am, Greg, I am!”

Below, the doors smashed open.

“No, I mean -- really -- hurry up!” The chanting was louder than ever, mixed in with roars, the pursuit of the hunt. Greg, along with Sherlock and Salama, glanced over the balcony. The people of Egypt, now no more than shells, Imhotep’s slaves, were advancing up the long winding stairs, smashing their way past artefacts, crushing them underneath their feet.

Greg edged closer to her. “Molly, you’ve got to hurry---”

“Oh Greg, will you shut up for five minutes?”

“Not really!”

“Patience is a virtue,” she replied, her voice sing-song, bouncing on her toes, still reading.

“Not right now, it isn’t!” said Sherlock from behind her, eyes still on what was going on below.

“The front entrance is blocked,” Salama said. She gestured to Greg, beckoning. “You, with me and the American. We’ll go the back way.”

“Happy to!” Greg hurried to follow Salama, pushing the astonished American in front of him, down the path of the landing. As soon as they were out of sight, Molly yelled in delight.

“Ha! I’ve got it! The golden book of Amun-Ra is buried at the base of the statue of Horus!” She pumped the air, beaming as she turned towards Sherlock. “Bembridge can go stuff themselves!”

“Strong words,” Sherlock smirked, grabbing her hand. “Time to go, Miss Hooper.”

#mizjoely #sherlolly #mollock #sherlock x molly #au #eleanorwrites #salama dey = sally donovan #also this lestrade is basically greg lestrade mashed with that character rupert graves played in dw #other than that #this is still crap #please enjoy

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