gmd-in-221b

What initially woke you was your own nightmare. It was war-time, after all, and visions of blaster fire and explosions and heart-stopping dread as you tried to flee from the Empire had plagued your resting mind as you tried to get some sleep after your latest mission. When the fear became too much, you jerked awake with nothing more than a sharp gasp and a racing heart. Your every nerve ending thrummed and tingled as you flopped onto your back, staring at the ceiling of the ship as you tried to calm yourself down. It was just a dream, you assured yourself. You were safe inside one of the sleeping quarters of your team’s ship. Baze and

This is a prequel/companion fic to The Case of the Black Arrow. It will be a series of one-shots that give an in-depth look into The Black Arrow's life Chapter summary: Before she became The Black Arrow, a.k.a. Artemis Fletcher, she was Ursula St. Vincent, just another orphan of St. Vincent's Infant Asylum. But someone had to leave her there first. A/N: The translations for the German dialogue will be at the end The mid-autumn night was clear and brisk as Wilhelmina Kühn made her way through the streets of Baltimore. It was late enough that few humans were around to notice her presence, but she kept to the shadows all the same. The bu

Full Name: Artemis Ursula St. Vincent-Fletcher Nickname: Artie Alias: The Black Arrow Born: Unknown; found on the doorstep of St. Vincent’s Infant Asylum on October 21, 1875 Fur Color: Black with a white patch on her right thigh Eyes: Pale brown Ethnicity: American of unknown ancestry Animal: Common House Mouse Occupation: Vigilante Weapons: Has a preference for blunt weapons, like her lead pipe Base: personality-wise, a very odd mix of Anakin Skywalker, Tom Hiddleston’s Loki, and Matt Murdock a.k.a. Daredevil. Physically, I just made things up Voice Actor: Emma Stone Clothing: when she’s prowling around as The B

“You should have taken the morphine,” I said to Miss Fletcher in a matter-of-fact tone, which earned me a potent glare from the young woman. The three of us were standing in the shadows on the edge of the West India Docks. Basil was acting as lookout while Miss Fletcher braced herself against a nearby wall, clutching her side and looking like she was going to collapse from pain and exhaustion. The reason for her aggravated discomfort was sitting close by wagging his tail, most pleased with himself. Toby and Miss Fletcher’s first meeting didn’t go well at all. Before going to enlist the dog’s assistance, I had on

Things happened quickly once Basil and I got Miss Fletcher inside. We sat her gingerly on the sofa; Basil removed her heavy wool coat while I retrieved my medical bag. Miss Fletcher groaned painfully as Basil assisted her, which I took as a positive sign. The sooner she regained consciousness, the better, especially if she had any head injuries. “We’ll have to remove her jumper as well. She has a wound in her side that needs tending to,” I said. “I don’t think I can do that without aggravating her injuries,” replied Basil uncertainly. I spotted a solution on Basil’s work table, “Hand me those

Content Warning: This chapter contains sensitive topics that are mentioned but not outright depicted, but for the sake of my readers' well-being, I am putting a warning here. Please tread carefully if you're triggered by things like child abuse, murder, and attempted murder. The wait for Sister Bernadette’s letter telling us more about The Black Arrow, or rather, Miss Artemis Fletcher, was agonizing, especially for Basil. For the first week, he was more agitated than he normally was, and became so snappish that I, not wanting to be on the receiving end of his short temper, took to avoiding him. It was quite a stroke of convenience that

 As an author's note before we begin, "hawkshaw"= old timey word for a detective For the second time in less than a week, I was gazing up at a run down building. The neighborhood was slightly better than the location of the shoe maker’s shop, at least. Basil was looking at the abandoned newspaper printery (located inside an abandoned human newspaper printery) with a fire in his eyes that gave me pause. While Basil was normally voracious in his pursuit of justice, and I no less enthusiastic in accompanying him, standing in front of another seedy building without a clearly laid-out plan had me doubting (not for the first time) his mental

The home of Edmund and Helen Chattoway was a spacious, posh place on Gloucester not terribly far from the Natural History Museum. They were a fairly young, well-to-do dormouse couple; Mr. Chattoway had some connections to the nobility. His father may have been a business heir, but to what, I never found out. Mrs. Chattoway was a pretty little thing, and quite a socialite too. Both of them were often seen at London’s most exclusive parties. Now, however, they could be found on a sofa in their sitting room. Their little daughter, Hazel, was sitting in between them and fidgeting with a doll in her lap. The girl, a near carbon copy of her m

Unfortunately, the search of the smugglers’ headquarters yielded no clues save for blood splatter and broken teeth, and we retreated back to our flat with no leads on the mysterious vigilante. Basil returned to Scotland Yard to, again, ask Pine to allow him to run tests on the letter, and again Pine refused him. Having come to a dead end, Basil got in touch with his various contacts throughout the city and requested they keep their eyes and ears out for a black mouse possibly named Archer. Then, having exhausted our possibilities, there was nothing left to do but wait for word on our quarry. The vigilante didn’t resurface until s

Of all the cases Basil of Baker Street and I worked on together, none affected both of us as much as one that began on a chilly spring evening in late May of 1899. Basil and I had been assisting Scotland Yard in apprehending members of a smuggling ring who had been bringing in low-grade, unregulated opium into the city. Through our combined efforts, we had determined who was in charge, where their source of the opium came from, to whom they were distributing their product, and when each shipment came into port. We knew nearly everything except how they were moving their goods from the ships and onto the streets. More than once, Inspector Pine