I do not own Sherlock (the particular version I'm using belongs to the BBC, I believe. The characters themselves belong to Arthur Conan Doyle.) or Buffy. So please don't sue me for their use.
Takes place after A Case in Pink (first episode of Sherlock) and post-Chosen. Ignores the comics.
Sherlock wasn't a policeman. It wasn't his job to prevent crimes from happening, only to solve them after they had. But that was fine by him - to prevent a crime would be too boring, he'd already have caught the perpetrator.
That said, Sherlock wasn't the kind of person to ignore a crime in progress, either. Even that was more interesting than sitting around, waiting for the next interesting case.
So, when Sherlock was out for a walk one evening, struggling to find a challenge of any sort in the world around him (not that there ever was one) his interest was piqued by a scream.
Sherlock was something of a connoisseur of screams. Where a layman would hear only shrill cry, Sherlock could tell the difference between a scream indicating "Help! I'm being mugged!" and the (regrettably far more common) "Help! I'm drunk and I've just stepped on my own fingers!".
Then there were screams like this one. A desolate, hopeless wail, a plea that someone, anyone, would come and help them. That
Sherlock found interesting.
The scream came from quite nearby, which was fortunate. And a cul-de-sac, which meant that the criminal, should they try to escape, would have no choice but to pass by Sherlock. It looked as though Sherlock's luck was in.
As Sherlock rapidly covered the distance between him and the screamer, he wished that John could be there to see - well, whatever there was to see. Sherlock did so love showing off.
The cul-de-sac was empty, save for a young woman. Fairly tall, mid-twenties, fashionably if impractically dressed in designer clothes, pale complexion suggested that she didn't often see the light of day. Sherlock suspected her to be a... ahem, lady of negotiable virtue.
However, upon drawing closer, he realised that his assumption was probably wrong. The woman was rather favouring her right leg - she injured it fending off her attacker, no doubt. Those 3-inch heels probably hadn't helped. This stance revealed that she had what appeared to be a flat-bladed dagger strapped to her inner thigh, which would ordinarily have been hidden by her voluminous skirt. She also had some kind of pointed object concealed in her sleeve - Sherlock thought it was metal at first, but the way the fabric of the sleeve caught on it suggested that it was some kind if rough-grained wood, most likely hand whittled. A stake of some kind, then. Fascinating. Definitely not a prostitute, then. An assassin, perhaps? That would be interesting.
Not that Sherlock gave any indication that he'd noticed any of this. He merely inquired, faking a pant (No need to let her know that he wasn't really out of breath) "Are you alright?"
"What?" asked the woman absently, testing her heel. She winced when she put weight in it. Twisted, then. "Oh, yes, I'm fine, thank you."
American. Californian. The region around LA, if Sherlock was any judge of accents. Which of course he was. Interesting. Sherlock didn't know about any hitmen (or hitwomen, in this case) from that area, but that didn't mean anything. The accent could easily be faked.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked.
"Hmm? Oh, I was... just walking, and then this guy appeared from nowhere, just out of the blue, grabbed me. I think he wanted to... ahem, you know... anyway, he ran away when I kicked him and screamed for help." the woman explained.
She was lying. Fairly obviously. Oh, it was a plausible enough story, but if someone had really wanted to rape the woman, she'd be far more shaken up about it. She could be in shock, of course, but she wasn't exhibiting any of the symptoms of it.
And, of course, the man hadn't run away. Sherlock would've seen him if he had. So, either the man had vanished into thin air (unlikely) or the woman was lying (far more probable). This was getting more interesting by the minute.
"Will you be able to get home alright? Or would you like me to call the police? Or I can walk you home, if you like, you might get into trouble with that injured ankle." Sherlock said, playing the typical flustered citizen for all he was worth.
Suspicion appeared in the woman's eyes. Why? Sherlock hadn't said anything that would've aroused suspicion. "I'm sorry, but I don't make a habit of walking home with strangers. Who are you, anyway?"
The woman didn't mention the police, which meant that she didn't want to get them involved. Hardly surprising, given the weaponry secreted about her person. Thinking quickly, Sherlock decided to give the woman his first name. He did, after all, have a reputation in certain criminal circles. Perhaps if he revealed it, it might encourage the woman to do something, reveal something about herself. "I'm Sherlock."
"Really?" the woman said, smiling wryly. Why? What was funny?
"Wow. You've got an even weirder name than my sister." the woman replied. Ah, so she hadn't heard of him, then. Either that, or she was doing a phenomenal job of hiding it. Sherlock suspected the former. "I'm Dawn, by the way."
Sherlock didn't think she was lying about her name. Curious. He didn't know any assassins that went by Dawn - maybe she was new? No, more likely there was something else going on here entirely.
"I'm going to call my friend. Would you mind waiting until he arrives? I don't want to be set upon by any more rapists." Dawn asked, already rummaging in a pocket for her phone.
"Of course not." Sherlock replied. And it was true. He wanted nothing more than to stay with this mysterious Dawn, if only to find out something, anything about her.
Speed dial. A close friend then. "Spike? It's Dawn... No, nothing's wrong, I've just twisted my ankle, I need a ride... Yes, that's all taken care of, don't worry." Then Dawn paused, looking about her.
"Meard Street. Soho." Sherlock supplied helpfully. Dawn looked at him suspiciously, and Sherlock could tell that she was wondering if he'd been eavesdropping. He hadn't, of course, he'd just deduced it from the way she was looking around her. Although he couldn't help but wonder why she didn't know where she was. It could be because she was an American and didn't know her way around, but Sherlock doubted it. Nothing about Dawn seemed that simple.
"I'm in Meard Street, Soho, apparently." Dawn said into the phone. Then she smiled at whatever this Spike's response had been, and said "Okay, sure. See you in a few minutes." Then Dawn hung up.
"My friend will be here in a few minutes." Dawn commented.
"So I heard."
"You must have good hearing, then." Dawn said it pointedly, as though it should mean something to him. Sherlock couldn't imagine what.
"Not particularly. You're just standing close by, and not speaking very quietly." Sherlock replied equably. Although he was sorely tempted, he didn't ask what she was doing here. Sherlock got the feeling that Dawn would clam up if he did.
So Sherlock was mildly surprised when Dawn asked him what he was doing there. She even asked it as though it was just idle chitchat, exactly the same tone that Sherlock would've used to ask the question. Dawn was good, whoever she was.
"Out for a walk." Sherlock answered. It was true. "You?"
"Oh, the same."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Blatant lies. This time, he couldn't resist commenting "In those heels?".
Dawn was saved the trouble of concocting more lies (unfortunately for Sherlock, who would've liked to hear what she had to say) by the roar of a motorbike coming up the cul-de-sac and stopping in front of them.
Spike had dyed blond hair, and it was indeed spiky. That suggested that Spike was a nickname of some sort. The motorbike and hair, combined with the long black coat and black clothes suggested that he was what John would indubitably term a bad boy. Perhaps Dawn's boyfriend?
No. Friends only, judging by their body language. Close friends, although Dawn's slight awkwardness (very slight indeed) suggested that she may have once held some feelings for him.
Once Spike cut off the bike's engine, Sherlock had the unpleasant sensation of being given a quick once-over. Sherlock was used to being the one giving those, not receiving. He didn't like it, especially given that Spike subsequently ignored him.
"Who's this, Bit?" Spike asked with such an exaggeratedly lower class English accent that Sherlock was sure it was fake.
"This? This is Sherlock. Don't worry about him." Dawn answered.
Upon hearing the name Sherlock, Spike froze for a fraction of a second. So, Spike knew of him, then. How gratifying. "Right then. Shall we skedaddle? Wouldn't want your sis to worry about you."
"No, we wouldn't." Dawn agreed, saddling the motorbike as though she'd done it many times before.
"Goodbye, Sherlock." Dawn called as the motorbike sped away. Sherlock didn't answer, just watched them go.
Doubtlessly, this would be a mystery that he could ponder whilst between cases. How useful. He wondered if he'd ever solve it.
"Did you get the vamp, Niblet?" Spike said, speaking loudly enough to be heard over the roar of his engine.
"I did. She won't be killing any more Watchers." Dawn said with satisfaction. "She screamed before I staked her, though. Nearly blew my cover when that Sherlock showed up."
"I'd look out for that one, if I were you. I think he knows, or suspects, more than he let on." Spike cautioned.
Dawn could tell Spike wasn't telling her something. "Spike, what do you know about him?" she asked.
"He's got a reputation. Bloody good one. He's a detective of some sort - only human cases, though, at least so far. They say that he solves impossible cases and makes them look easy." Spike answered.
"You know. Them. Demons in bars. That sort of thing." Spike replied.
"Well, we'd better make sure he doesn't become involved then." Dawn answered. Although she couldn't help but think what it would be like to have a real detective amongst the Scoobies, not just their gang of meddling kids.