Detective Watson and Inspector Anon VII
A fanfic where you, Anon, have just landed a job at Amelia Watson's detective agency. The black clouds overhead have cleared, the dead remain still and the reaper stalks the morgue no longer. The city breathes a sigh of relief as the killings stop, yet no one will ever know of the part that you and your partner played.
Updated whenever I'm 
Previous Chapter: https://rentry.co/rtod8
As you can likely tell from my work down below, I'm a pretty amateur writer. I hope that through my posting and your criticisms that over time, I shape up to be much better and produce more enjoyable stories.
"So, no bonus?"
"No bonus." The blonde clarified, looking up from a mess of paperwork on her desk. "I get you're a lil' bit miffed that we ain't getting paid the big bucks but get this," she said, wiggling her pen at you, "Sergeant Morris said he owes us his thanks." The glint in her sky-blue eyes and the devious grin she wore hinted at such a thing being worth so much more than what you initially assumed.
"And this means he'll... give us a favor or two, maybe?" You slowly queried, setting down your own pen and leaning back in your dinky little lawn chair. Through the divine law of fucking around and finding out, you had discovered the absolute limits of how far back you could possibly tilt backward before it pitched you unceremoniously onto the hardwood floor. You might as well apply to be a Hollywood stunt double with how good you've gotten at catching your falls.
The clapping of her hands is what fills the quiet office atmosphere, as well as a "Youuuuuuu're right! A+ marks for you, Anon!" With a triumphant look on her features, she stood right up with a few familiar folders tucked underneath her arm. "The big man gets to take the credit for putting an end to the killings, but he's a smart guy and knows he couldn't have done it without us! He's already given us special privileges, as you can see," she said, gesturing to the police badge that hung on the side of your own corkboard. "If he's willing to give us badges and a bit of authority, think of the blind eye he can turn when we gotta do something else!"
Scratching your chin, you scooch your chair around and look at the badge. You didn't quite recall Morrish wanting them back, but instead...
"What badges?" The burlier man's hands enclosed one of yours, eyes not leaving yours as he forcibly pushed your hand back into your coat's pockets. "I don't know about any badges."
That was about all that you remembered before they shoved you and Watson into an ambulance a couple of days ago.
"Yeah, I s'pose you've got yourself a point." You murmur, watching her set the folders down on your desk. "Who's up next on our ghost-busting list? I already have a few small ideas about where to start." You add, standing up. Your corkboard's a lot less cluttered than Amelia's, but of course, you haven't been at this as long as her. The girl with the fish tail has lines connecting her to the fishery and the people who got bit. Kiara Fried Phoenix? Inconclusive, you should start by eating out there more often and eavesdropping. You also remember having ones set up with purple string but... they're all on the side again.
You swear you put them up every day, but they never quite stay on there. You even ask Watson if she's been taking them down, but she gives you a look like you're crazy.
"We have the most leads on the fish girl as of right now, but you know what we could also do?"
"What?"
"Go clubbing."
"Well, that seems kinda rude to do. I know that's how you like stun fish and drag them in but-" your voice trails off before dying completely as you turn to see Watson's absolutely deadpan face.
"Clubbing, as in like, y'know... dancing but you've clearly never done something like that in your life." She said teasingly, an eyebrow arched as she processed just how innocent you were.
"That's a lie. I've danced before!" You said hastily, your heart speaking before your mind could stop you. She's got you now.
"When?"
"... Fifth-grade square dances...?" You slowly and sheepishly offer.
"Not even high school prom dances?"
You're too embarrassed to keep going. "That's just some real dark history that's gotta stay buried, like what happened with The Omen." Flustered out of your mind, you start gathering your stuff. It's about to be the end of the workday anyways.
"Speaking of The Omen, guess what we're gonna do?" Your blood freezes solid as Amelia gently places a hand over yours and uses her other hand to take your chin, making you look at her. She definitely doesn't look more muscular than you or feel that way, but even those soft fingers that trail along your jawline might as well be immovable. Not that you'd want to move anyways.
"W-What?" Your voice comes out as a sort of low croak, with no willpower to pull away from her. "C-Clubbing?"
"And visiting her. Dress cool, okay?"
Cool. What the hell was that supposed to mean?!
You had ravaged your meager closet, looking for anything that you felt could remotely match her definition of 'cool.' Nothing really stuck out, so you found yourself going on a quick shopping spree. The absolute last thing you wanted to do was look out of place next to the most attractive girl in the club.
And now?
Standing in line outside of the club, you awkwardly fidgeted with the sleeves of your tight black v-neck shirt. You weren't that big of a guy, but your arms had a bit of definition still from when you used to help out on a family friend's farm. One of the helpful employees at the store mentioned that having tight sleeves that 'made your guns pop' was something that was a definite eyecatcher for the opposite sex (and other lifters). Paired with some white sneakers and black jeans, your outfit's finished with the memento mori you had been gifted hanging around your neck.
You feel a bit ridiculous.
Fortunately though, you spot a familiar figure walking up. Oh good fucking GOD.
Time comes to a standstill and you hold your hand out, trying to catch her attention. An excited grin's on your face, and if you had a tail, you'd bet a hundred bucks that it'd be wagging too. "H-Hey! Watson!" You start, stepping out of the line as she approaches you.
... And keeps walking. She gives you no look but instead she outstretches a finger toward you, curling it toward herself. Come. Wordlessly, you obey and your body moves on its own, taking one stiff step after another until you fall in line behind her. Wow. You really are a dog.
She exudes an air of authority so strong that she immediately turns heads. Jealous eyes and eyes full of longing fixate on her. Is that your imagination or reality? Regardless, the thought of someone having ill intent towards her makes you irritated. So much so that you blow past your normal inhibitions and wrap an arm around her shoulders. The boldness of your action draws a surprised look from her. However, it disappears as quickly as it appears as she focuses on the bouncer. A large, hulking man steps away from the door, stopping the two of you in your tracks.
Oh by the fucking DIVINES is this man ripped. You're pretty sure that just getting a sniff of his breath would put fifty grams of protein and creatine directly in your system. Hell, he looks so 'roided up that you're confident that smelling him would make you fail a drug test now. Normally you might shy away from a guy as menacing as him, cross the street, look down at your phone and walk faster.
But with her by your side? You square your shoulders and look him dead in the eye.
"Ain't no cuttin' tha line." His voice is burly, deep, and rough. A mountain given voice, a landslide with a microphone. "Getcho' ass back th-"
Amelia holds up her phone, and the peak of doped weightlifting bends down, squinting at it. For the first time in a long while, it's his turn to shrink back. He holds his head low and turns to the side, opening the heavy wooden doors of the club to you, the sound of music and raucous partying instantly spilling onto the streets.
"M'bad, right this way." He apologized, closing it right behind the two of you.
You've never been in a club before. The closest you'd been to was a bar in your town on the weekends. Hell, even the loudest nights at that place could never match the club's ambiance if you tripled the patronage. Loud music blasts from hidden speakers, vibrating every atom in your body. "ARE WE HERE FOR THE OMEN?" You need to shout to be heard over the tunes being played and the shouting. It's so deafening that you swear your eyes were shaking with every bass drop, and there was a plentiful amount of those.
"SHE'S PERFORMING! COME THIS WAY!" Your partner shouts back, shrugging your arm off her shoulder. You're dismayed for a second, but then your hopes are reignited instantly as she seizes your wrist, tugging you through the dense crowd. For such a small girl, she makes bodying through these people look awfully easy.
But then, it hits you. The Omen is performing? You think of the regal, well-spoken Grim Reaper, and you think of how she might keep the vibes in this club going. Was she gonna sing a ballad or something? There's no shot that she'd fit in here! But then you see it.
Amelia's dragging you towards the main stage, where a tall pinkette dressed in what you think might be punk clothes and sunglasses is spitting bars at a crowd of revelers waving light sticks.
"WE ON ANOTHER LEVEL, WHEN THE DUST SETTLES
AN ACTUAL SCENE OUTTA HELL"
The Grim Reaper is fucking rapping.
As if sensing your incredulity, they stare directly at you. A few people interpret this as her looking at them, but no. Their pink eyes are fixed directly on yours, and a savage look decorates her pale face as she points at you, again causing the crowd to go insane.
"WE'LL LOCK IT DOOOOWN ~
SO IF YOU BITCHES NEED ME CAAAALL ~"
Your memento mori trinket trembles slightly. A result of the crowd jumping and shouting, or real arcane influence? You were never really one to be into rap of this kind, but seeing Watson next to you start to lose herself to the music? It only inspires you to follow her lead, a wild grin appearing on your face as your hands go above your head. Light sticks are thrust into your hand, and now you join the sea of people wearing 'Dead Beat' t-shirts in their cheering.
It's been hours. Or something like that. The crowd's mostly gone now, and you're even sorer than when you threw yourself out that second-story window getting away from The Omen. Sitting on the side with Watson, you watch as your attempted killer talks with some guy in a business suit and accepts a few wads of cash before strolling towards you.
"Sup."
"Don't 'sup' me! You're a rapper now?!" You start, voice cracking slightly before you stop yourself. You definitely screamed yourself hoarse in the performance.
"Well, duh. How else are you supposed to blend in? You think I was gonna work somewhere dusty like that morgue or sum'n?" Calliope replied nonchalantly, blowing a small bubble with her chewing gum. The parallels between this version and the one that had tried- no, actually killed an alternate version of you was insane.
"Watson, what're we here for again?" You elbow the blonde gently, who stirs from her nap and blinks blearily at the other female.
"mmmghfgh..." Is the only response you two get as she pulls the blue-marked folder out of her coat and hands it over to Mori, who begins thumbing through it.
Letting out a low whistle, she closed it and tossed it on your lap.
"The Atlantean? Yeah, I guess I could help with that."