Title: Holmes (Or the Modern Frankenstein) (1/?)

Author: SemiPrecious17

Rating: R (for now)

Genre: Sherlock/John (eventual)

Spoilers: None.

Warnings (for now): Gore, most likely some magical realism (because real science and I are no simpatico), AU. Dark!Sherlock I guess? Sorta, but nothing crazy.

Word Count: 1158 for this chapter

Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock nor Frankenstein. =(

A/N: So this is basically my take on Frankenstein and his 'monster' which I'm currently rereading for a course I'm in. It is NOT a play by play of the book but will retain certain aspects of it. I'm not sure if this will be rated NC-17 or not (am I bold enough to have Sherlock have sex with a reanimated object? I don't know yet (lol))! It is a WIP and a AU, let me say that now! BUT I have every intention of having up the next part within the next few days. This first chapter is more of a prologue if anything but the full story will most likely be no more than three or four parts.

I dunno, just give it a chance? Concrit is definitely welcome for I have not a Beta and am woefully American.

Summary:
Sherlock poked and prodded at it for ages, fascinated and enraptured by the way the skin peeled away so easily, by the peek of delicate, brittle bones beneath. He wondered idly if he could some how put the dog back together again. Scoop out the clotted blood and maggots and pour in new fresh blood. Maybe he could reorganize those jumbled organs and get the small heart to beat again. Perhaps smooth down the matted fur and torn skin and sew it all together again with the needle and thread Mummy kept in her craft room.

When Sherlock was just a young boy, no more than eight or nine, he found a sleeping dog at the edge of the woods that bordered his family's property. It was small and darkly furred, ears pointed and tail a barely there nub, laying curled in on itself half hidden in the piles of dense moist leaves that always piled up by this time in Autumn.

As most children would, Sherlock decide the dog would be his best friend and faithful companion until the day he died. He moved eagerly to scoop up the animal, no thought to his safety, already plotting how best to rub his new friend in stupid Mycroft's face. It wasn't until his hand sunk wrist deep into the hidden underside of the dog, that he realized it was dead and rotting from the inside out.

But unlike most children-because Sherlock was not most children, and try never to forget that- he didn't let the creature fall with a shrill scream and go running to mummy. No, instead he set it on the leaf covered ground, rotting side up, and pulled out his hand. He stared for a long minute at the gummy blood and dissolving organs and flecks of fur coating his skin. Then Sherlock wiped it carelessly on the grass and gazed into the belly of the beast. So to speak.

The blood was mostly congealed or drying and the organs were a soup of disintegrating tissue. The tiny, white bodies of the maggots roiling around inside were an interesting contrast to the livid reds and dark browns.

Sherlock poked and prodded at it for ages, fascinated and enraptured by the way the skin peeled away so easily, by the peek of delicate, brittle bones beneath. He wondered idly if he could some how put the dog back together again. Scoop out the clotted blood and maggots and pour in new fresh blood. Maybe he could reorganize those jumbled organs and get the small heart to beat again. Perhaps smooth down the matted fur and torn skin and sew it all together again with the needle and thread Mummy kept in her craft room.

These thoughts kept his mind spinning, but the rank smell got to even him eventually. The nauseating odor of putrefying flesh and purging gasses enough to eventually have him uncurling his small body from its crouch and moving away from his would be companion to catch a breath of fresh air.

He walked back to the house slowly; strange blue eyes trained on the ground in concentration, thinking of the dog, wondering if it was indeed possible to put it together again, a child's imagination and confidence fueling the thoughts until he was relatively sure if he tried hard enough, it could be done.

Caught up in the web of his imaginings, Mycroft snagged him before he had a chance to run away. He caught him by the collar and took in the dirt smudged knees of his trousers, the hand still smeared with blood and fur up to the slender wrist, wrinkled his nose at the obvious odor of him.

"What have you been up to, Sherlock?"

"None of your business. Sod off," the younger Holmes snapped in his most grown up voice, trying to twist out of the older boys grip. Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow in that manner that drove Sherlock absolutely crazy and stared him down.

"There was a dog, I wanted it to be my friend," he mumbled angrily. "But it's dead now."

Sherlock was an astute young boy. Really, everyone said so. So he notice when Mycroft tensed all over and the fist bunched in his collar gripped ever tighter. Sherlock looked up at him curiously and was intrigued to find an emotion he wasn't very familiar with-not that he was familiar with many, and wasn't thatfortunate, in his very naive opinion. Fear and anger clouded Mycroft's darker blue eyes and when he spoke again it was in a tone that made Sherlock sit up and take note.

"And did you kill it, Sherlock?" Mycroft hissed at him, agitation in every line of his body.

"Don't be stupid."

"You have dried blood on your hands and streaked over your right cheek, bits of fur on your trousers and I could tell from the expression on your face as you were walking that you were thinking very hard on something. So my question is in no way stupid and you have yet to answer it," he snapped. "Did you or did you not kill an innocent dog?"

Sherlock was tempted to stay silent just to be contrary, but then Mycroft would only bring the matter to Mummy- because he was an insufferable tattle tale-and Sherlock was already in trouble for lighting the drapes on fire in the sitting room. So he dragged an already scuffed shoe across the ground and scowled down at it before answering, because he could get away with that at least.

"No, Mycroft, the dog was dead when I found it." He felt the grip on his shirt relax and wriggled a bit.

"Then why do you have blood all over you?" Sherlock scowled harder and huffed out a put upon breath.

"I dunno," he grumbled. The fist tightened again and he pouted. "I just wanted to see what it looked liked inside."

"You will not do it again. Do you understand me?"

"What's the big deal, Mycroft?" he whined. "It was already dead!"

"We do not play with dead things. Do you understand me, Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up and saw only the fear remaining in his brothers gaze. He heaved a sigh as hefty as his young lungs could manage and nodded. Mycroft stared down at him for a long moment while Sherlock tried to look as contrite as possible. Finally he was released to scurry away with as much dignity as possible.

"Go wash before supper, and don't let Mummy see you," Mycroft called after him. Sherlock hurried into the kitchens and pretended he couldn't feel his brother's heavy gaze resting on him as he walked away.

That night he dreamed of the dog.

He was kneeling again in the moist leaves.

Sherlock opened up his stomach and chest, pried back his ribs and gave the dog half of his heart, his small intestine, a lung. He cut a slit in his wrist and let his own life's blood fill the dry cavern of the dog. He sewed together the gaping wound with loving efficiency, pressed his rosebud lips to the dogs snout and breathed life back into it.

He grinned with delight when the large eyes flickered open, cloudy and glazed, petted it softly when it barked and maggots fell from its mouth.

This would be his friend, his faithful, adventurous companion.

Death was only an obstacle to be overtaken.

Sherlock awoke the next morning with a smile stretching his lips.

A/N: soooo yeah. TBC :)