Quantum (in)Determinism, by phantomjam (m)
Jul. 6th, 2012 08:47 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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het_reccersFandom Category: Luther (BBC)/Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Alice Morgan/John Luther, Alice Morgan/Jim Moriarty
Fic Title: Quantum (in)Determinism
Author: phantomjam
Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/345865
Rating/Warning(s): mature
Genre: crossover. drama
WIP?: no
Why This Must Be Read: Flawless writing of two of the most fascinating yet difficult characters to write. Alice Morgan's narration is stunning in this piece, as is her interaction with both John Luther and Jim Moriarty. It is deviously delightful. Have fun reading this one. ;)
The moment Alice opens the door, she knows that something is wrong. She wrinkles her nose: iron, ammonia, and voided bowels. Not the smell of domestic bliss. There is fresh dirt scuffed into the carpet, a picture knocked crooked on the wall. Someone has been into her flat. Multiple someones from the pattern of scuffmarks. Tall to have jogged the painting with their shoulders. Undoubtedly masculine.
She leaves the Sainsbury’s bag in the hallway and steps inside, one hand drawing an overlong hairpin from the pocket of her coat. The flat holds the eerie, static quiet of indrawn breaths and recently-vacated spaces, but Alice has always prized calculation over instinct so she does not relax. She is systematic: kitchen first, edging round the blind corner, weapon not preceding her but tucked unobtrusively along the inside of her wrist. Deserted. Clean as she left it. She switches her pin for a knife as she passes through.
Adjoining living area: deserted, not clean. Erratic blood spatter over the wall, the window, drenching the coffee table – now severely scratched, they’ve ruined the varnish. Meat cleaver, is her first thought. Neat, straight lines clustered at either end of the table. A person (animal; thing; meat) spread-eagled across its length? Hands removed at the wrists? Inexpertly, or with deliberate disregard for cleanliness. Looks like they had to saw a bit. Ought to have sharpened the cleaver first: mutilation isn’t work for dull knives or dull minds.
Alice smiles. Someone has come into her home and they have done bad, bad, wicked things. An hour earlier, half an hour, a quarter (how narrowly did she miss them? Were they just here, the flat still body-warm?) and this blood might have been hers, or theirs. A thrill runs down her spine. She is not accustomed to surprises like this – not to being on the receiving end of them, anyway. She feels excited, violated; one sensation is much like the other. She tucks her tongue behind her teeth. Whoever’s work this is, she rather hopes they’re still here.
Back to the hallway, knife in hand: still empty. Guest bedroom: likewise, untouched.
Then: bloody smear on her bedroom door. Of course. How... intimate.
There’s a bloody swathe tracked across the floor of her bedroom where they must have dragged whatever or whoever it was they were working on. She registers the scattered constellation of red on her pristine sheets, her framed Chandra still of Cygnus X-1, and wonders idly why they kept the hallway clean. To string out the surprise a little longer? Draw her further in? Someone has been thoughtful. She follows the trail past her bed and into the en suite, where she stops.
An explosive scatter chart of viscera.
There is a human body in her bath, jointed as you would a chicken.
Pairing: Alice Morgan/John Luther, Alice Morgan/Jim Moriarty
Fic Title: Quantum (in)Determinism
Author: phantomjam
Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/345865
Rating/Warning(s): mature
Genre: crossover. drama
WIP?: no
Why This Must Be Read: Flawless writing of two of the most fascinating yet difficult characters to write. Alice Morgan's narration is stunning in this piece, as is her interaction with both John Luther and Jim Moriarty. It is deviously delightful. Have fun reading this one. ;)
The moment Alice opens the door, she knows that something is wrong. She wrinkles her nose: iron, ammonia, and voided bowels. Not the smell of domestic bliss. There is fresh dirt scuffed into the carpet, a picture knocked crooked on the wall. Someone has been into her flat. Multiple someones from the pattern of scuffmarks. Tall to have jogged the painting with their shoulders. Undoubtedly masculine.
She leaves the Sainsbury’s bag in the hallway and steps inside, one hand drawing an overlong hairpin from the pocket of her coat. The flat holds the eerie, static quiet of indrawn breaths and recently-vacated spaces, but Alice has always prized calculation over instinct so she does not relax. She is systematic: kitchen first, edging round the blind corner, weapon not preceding her but tucked unobtrusively along the inside of her wrist. Deserted. Clean as she left it. She switches her pin for a knife as she passes through.
Adjoining living area: deserted, not clean. Erratic blood spatter over the wall, the window, drenching the coffee table – now severely scratched, they’ve ruined the varnish. Meat cleaver, is her first thought. Neat, straight lines clustered at either end of the table. A person (animal; thing; meat) spread-eagled across its length? Hands removed at the wrists? Inexpertly, or with deliberate disregard for cleanliness. Looks like they had to saw a bit. Ought to have sharpened the cleaver first: mutilation isn’t work for dull knives or dull minds.
Alice smiles. Someone has come into her home and they have done bad, bad, wicked things. An hour earlier, half an hour, a quarter (how narrowly did she miss them? Were they just here, the flat still body-warm?) and this blood might have been hers, or theirs. A thrill runs down her spine. She is not accustomed to surprises like this – not to being on the receiving end of them, anyway. She feels excited, violated; one sensation is much like the other. She tucks her tongue behind her teeth. Whoever’s work this is, she rather hopes they’re still here.
Back to the hallway, knife in hand: still empty. Guest bedroom: likewise, untouched.
Then: bloody smear on her bedroom door. Of course. How... intimate.
There’s a bloody swathe tracked across the floor of her bedroom where they must have dragged whatever or whoever it was they were working on. She registers the scattered constellation of red on her pristine sheets, her framed Chandra still of Cygnus X-1, and wonders idly why they kept the hallway clean. To string out the surprise a little longer? Draw her further in? Someone has been thoughtful. She follows the trail past her bed and into the en suite, where she stops.
An explosive scatter chart of viscera.
There is a human body in her bath, jointed as you would a chicken.
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