The Bone Fiddle, Chapter 5/13
Nov. 29th, 2012 07:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedTitle: The Bone Fiddle
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By:bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
In this chapter: John starts to see the battlefield - and then the US Government calls.
Chapter 5 - Ain't No Fortunate Son
"Aren't you ordering anything?" John asked after the waitress finished pouring his coffee and left to tend to the other diner patrons.
"Food isn't necessary," Sherlock said dismissively. He swiveled moodily on the stool next to John. "Slows the mind."
"Uh, I beg to differ, Sherlock. At least order some coffee when she comes back. Come on, doctor's orders."
Sherlock shrugged, fingers tapping restlessly on the bar. His mind was still as preoccupied as it had been back at the swimming hole. John took a sip of his own coffee, and when he set it back on the bar Sherlock flinched as if John's very presence was an imposition. "Why did you want to eat?"
Very patiently, John said, "It usually helps me think. And, just so you know, saying 'Because I was hungry' is actually a perfectly valid reason for wanting to eat and doesn't really need any sarcastic follow up questions."
Sherlock wasn't convinced. He raised an eyebrow skeptically like he was actually Spock and resumed his staring contest with the menu board. God, it was like dealing with a child. John was considering asking the pretty young waitress for a coloring book.
They weren't the only ones in the diner, but it wasn't anywhere near full capacity. Too early, yet. The place was all cheery bright reds and black and white tiled walls, worn-in stools at the bar and outdated appliances behind the counter. The plates had little blue and yellow flowers on them, and the silverware came with those too-small paper napkins you only had at home.
He and Sherlock had gotten more than a few looks when they'd first come in, Sherlock shoving the door in so the bell rang violently before swooping inside with a scowl like the Caped Crusader, because really, that coat of his was just too much.
"I'm not the most popular guy in town," Sherlock said.
"Okay how are you reading my mind, exactly? Is it all down to the angle of my head or the exact amount of coffee I've drunk or what?"
It got a hint of a smile out of him, at least. "Well, you're staring at them staring at me. Wasn't much of a leap."
"So, let's have it. Why do people, uh . . . ?"
"Despise me? Well, the obvious explanation would be jealousy, but in reality it's mostly just generic stupidity."
"Uh . . ."
"I'm different things to different people, anything they want me to be, really. Some are convinced I'm a communist."
"And are you?"
Sherlock snorted. "Politics don't matter to me. They come and go. Others think I'm a radical."
John laughed. "You? Oh come on, have these people even met you?"
"It's complicated," was all Sherlock said to that. "You know, I think I will order some coffee or something . . . "
"Wait, are you some kind of radical?"
"Why don't you ask Sheriff Lestrade about all that?" Sherlock said testily. "He's more interested in the fine print of the law than I am."
"Okay, what are you talking about?"
"Suffice it to say he hasn't turned me in yet despite some very compelling warrants for my arrest in a couple of states, but he does it in exchange for my occasional help, so who's really the criminal here? I didn't even do anything. I just 'knew too much' about things that were abundantly obvious to anyone who bothered even trying to look. But that's people for you."
"So you're indebted to a corrupt cop, is that what you're saying?"
"I trust him more than a professedly moral cop who insists he can't be bought."
"So when you say 'radical' . . ."
"Oh, don't say it like that. You certainly aren't overly fond of the government. You aren't a Weatherman like I am, apparently, but still, you've got your reasons . . ." Sherlock was getting crankier by the minute. How had John gotten stuck with him, again?
"Hey there, Sherlock, maybe you should try eating something. Do you good."
"I told you," Sherlock snapped. "Slows the mind."
"Fine. Sorry for bringing it up," John said, sighed and folded his arms. "So, you're not politically minded at all? Come on, that can't be true. You've gotta have an opinion about the war, at least, though I'll thank you not to be too loud about it, this very minute. Surprised you weren't in the war, actually, a guy your age." Well, Sherlock looked young.
Nonchalantly, "Oh I was drafted, but they wouldn't take me."
"Um, how's that?"
"I believe the official reason was 'psychologically unfit'."
"So . . . no kids? No family?"
"No."
"Me, too. I mean, me either," John said, then because it looked like Sherlock might've thought he was being sarcastic, he added, "Groovy," and immediately wanted to kick himself.
Sherlock raised another eyebrow. "None of that is really my area. And especially the hippie slang."
"No, I know, I just. You know. It's cool. Whatever . . . shakes your . . . boat. I'm gonna shut up now. "
"I think that's for the best," Sherlock said. "Man."
Thankfully the waitress chose that moment to bring John his order.
John had wanted a gigantic, nearly burnt cheeseburger with overflowing ketchup and mustard and pickles and just the works the whole time he'd been in Southeast Asia. And he'd gotten one as soon as he'd landed in D.C., but it hadn't tasted like comfort food at all.
Sometimes, and very rarely, John's platoon would come across locals who didn't give them dirty looks or terrified looks, and they'd instead give the soldiers this noodley soup, phở, which seemed to be their version of comfort food, and it had tasted enough like Campbell's Chicken Noodle after weeks of gritty rations to feel fiercely comforting, too.
"You miss it," Sherlock stated.
"Mm?" John said around a mouthful of soup. Eating and looking sidelong at Sherlock at the same time was a bit challenging.
"The war."
"What the hell? Of course not."
"You miss the excitement of it," Sherlock amended, then affected a local accent: "And Lord knows there ain't much in the way of excitement in Stanger."
"Well, I hear there's been this string of harrowing murders, but other than that . . ."
Sherlock was almost grinning. Almost. He spoke nostalgically: "The first was Rose Ewart, found about a year ago with multiple stab wounds in a river in Wyoming County, although the cause of death was methanol poisoning. A month later Selena Adkisson was bludgeoned to death and her body was dumped in a river, too, in McDowell. Nobody thought much of it because she was not only black but an out-of-towner. Not even Lestrade thinks that one's connected, but I'm sure it is. The next was Kelly Milligan. Her body was found Easter Sunday at the graveyard, just propped up against one of the graves for all to see. Josephine Bahr and Terry McKenna were killed this last summer. Josephine was a schoolteacher, and she was shot dead. Terry is, to date, the only male who's been killed. Not enough data to know if there's a significance to that. His was also the most gruesome murder until now. At least Hannah's body is mostly intact."
"Oh." What the hell else was John supposed to say? "And you don't have any idea how they're connected?"
Sherlock bristled. "Other than the fact that they were all murdered at random over the last year? Nothing, really, except how unusual it is to have so many homicides so close together. And two of them - well, two and a half of them - found here? The last time anyone was convicted of murder in Arthel County was over ten years ago."
"Seriously?"
"I did say convicted."
"Gotcha." The waitress walked by again and John realized he'd barely touched his soup. "I mean, why can't it just be a bunch of unrelated coincidences?"
"No, it has to be connected."
"Why, 'cause that's more interesting?"
Sherlock didn't answer, just rested his chin on his hands and stared at the glossy tiled wall. After a long moment he stood up, shoved his hands sullenly in his pockets and stalked toward the door.
John looked frantically from his still piping hot soup to the preoccupied waitress and back to Sherlock's retreating figure. He was not getting left behind again. He prayed the cash he threw on the counter covered the bill, then scurried on after Sherlock again.
***
"Where are we going?"
"Need to run some errands. Might as well do something productive." Sherlock mumbled it as they ricocheted down a windy road. They passed a few mismatched wooden signs (TACKLE, BAIT, FLY RODS and TOBACCO OUTLET ONE MILE AHEAD and GUNS! BUY - SELL - TRADE GUN DEPOT) before eventually pulling up to a lonely general store with a rusting roof. Crispy-dead ragweed was smeared between the tentative background trees, and one lonely sumac stuck out redly in defiance of winter.
Sherlock hopped out and made for the store, and he'd never waited for John once, had he? John was starting to wonder if Sherlock even remembered he was there, sighed his frustration to the endlessly disturbing hearse with its stately profile and its seafoam green curtains. And why the hell were the curtains even there, anyway?
"Coming?" Sherlock called, standing in the middle of the dusty, otherwise empty parking lot and looking at John like he could read his every fleeting thought. As dismissive as Sherlock could be, John couldn't remember ever being noticed so much, either.
That's not to say Sherlock didn't turn around just as quickly and continue walking. John caught up with him eventually, struck by the loneliness of the place, here on the edge of fitful woods and far from civilization. Cheerful new John Deere's beckoned in desperate contrast to the grey-brown wood of the building, and the empty road they'd driven in on escaped in a hurry away toward town. The encroaching sugar maples were so silent.
John peered through the store's poster-choked front door – bingo night on Thursdays and that glitzy country star what's-her-name winking at him slyly – and could just glimpse Sherlock moving rapidly through the crowded shelves inside.
John found him among the horse bridles and harnesses juggling an armful of paraphernalia. Sherlock didn't say anything by way of explanation as he handed John a slightly curved metal something and then wandered off. John sighed again, and followed him. Not tripping over the girl restocking the lower shelves was a near thing.
The aisles were so cramped that Sherlock brushed inconsiderately against John as he passed by and headed to the front of the store to get rung up. John sighed for the third and, he was determined, final time before following again.
Sherlock barely flinched when John thrust the metal object an inch away from his nose. "The hell is this supposed to be, exactly?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took it from him. "For the bees, John."
"Oh right, well, of course I should've known that." John peered at the pile on the counter – fishing wire and cigarettes and . . . "Hey, uh, didn't you just give me a lecture about the evils of chewing tobacco?"
"Messiness."
"How . . ."
"Messiness, not evil. And it's not for me."
"Oh, so you're supporting my addiction, now?"
Sherlock shrugged. "You were almost out. And you're less likely to be cranky in the future if you've got easy access to one of your coping mechanisms."
John couldn't tell if Sherlock was being secretly nice or just inadvertently nice. At this point John would take what he could get.
The cashier handed Sherlock a receipt. "Thanks again, Mr. Holmes. I must get at least half my business from you. Gotta tell you, though, it ain't easy keeping all these fancy chemistry accoutrements in stock."
"No, I bet it isn't," Sherlock said. "Thank you, Mr. Wiggins."
"Not a problem, not a problem. Take care now."
Sherlock turned, and John turned, and the girl who'd nearly tripped John up before succeeded expertly in tripping Sherlock, now.
Sherlock's purchases clattered to the floor along with the bundle she'd been carrying. Papers rained in slow motion all around, and she muttered apologies while a dozen reproductions of the country singer's face seemed to smirk at her clumsiness.
She stood up, and John recognized her.
"Oh, I am terrible sorry, mister, really I am," said the girl from the dance, the one with no time for friends or boys or any inclination to give John the time of day. She didn't even bother to glance at him now, either, just fiddled with her long yellow hair and fixated on Sherlock instead of gathering her things.
John wasn't surprised to see her – you just ran into people, in small communities, and most stores managed to be the only place to get That One Thing. You didn't, however, usually run into people who had looked like death froze over but took a sudden turn for the amicable after catching sight of Sherlock Holmes and his oh-so-alluring aloofness and his, you know, his piercing gaze or whatever.
"Forget it," Sherlock said, and John had a strange little panic before realizing he was addressing the girl. Sneering at her, really, not that it deterred the starry-eyed look she was favoring him with.
"I'm so, so sorry, sir," she kept repeating, and the sing-song quality to her voice was grating. Even more annoying than her former iciness. It was a good thing Sherlock wasn't interested.
"I said forget it," Sherlock repeated flatly. She smiled so sweetly in return, but he just snatched up his things and left without helping her sort out the mess. John dithered for a minute before following him, and he didn't even remember to sigh about it.
Sherlock was busy organizing the trunk of, no, the back of the hearse. The inside of the hearse? He straightened up as John approached, hair perpetually askew in a way that made John want to smooth it down.
"Just fits," Sherlock said proudly.
John peered into the hearse. It was literally brimming with random odds and ends. "Nice hoard you got there. I – "
Sherlock shoved him against the door, firm hand on John's shoulder. "Someone's coming."
"Um, so what? Hey!" Sherlock shoved him a little further until John was more or less inside the hearse, and John was pretty sure there was a rifle and a toolbox and at least one spare tire digging into his back. "Sherlock," he hissed, but Sherlock just shushed him and pressed himself flat against the precarious contents of the hearse as much as possible. Sherlock breathed very evenly, but John could still feel it ghosting through his hair. He got distracted with wondering what it took to get Sherlock less even and more erratic, in general. Sherlock hadn't lessened his grip on John's shoulder a bit and the air was so thin with cold that John couldn't breathe.
A pickup pulled into the parking lot not a minute later. "Tanner Greer," Sherlock announced in a whisper, felt suddenly closer because his voice resonated in John's ears. John craned his neck to see but Sherlock just shoved him back down. "You'll give us away."
"Seriously? Don't you think the hearse is a bit of a give away?"
"No, actually," Sherlock breathed. John got a look at this face, eyes darting around at unseen things in the background before finding John again. They were pale and silvery, right now, and the angle of the emerging noontime sun made his eyelashes glow around the edges. "People instinctively don't notice hearses. And if they do, it's only out of respect for whoever might be inside. They certainly don't start speculating on its driver's potential ulterior motives."
"But of course," John said sarcastically. "Nobody expects the local undertaker!"
Sherlock gave him a blanker look than usual.
"British comedy. Thought you, at least, would appreciate the dryness." John went to rub at the back of his neck but Sherlock captured his wrist and held that still too. "You know, Sherlock, you're insisting I shut up and don't move, but I've gotta point out you're doing a lot of jumping around here just to keep me at bay."
"Shh, they're coming back."
"What do you mean, 'they'?"
"Shh!" Sherlock leaned into John like he was just another piece of junk to get a better view – cold clung to the buttons of his coat and made John shiver – then ducked down when the pickup drove off, side of his face against the side of John's face for a minute and his lips dragged over John's cheek accidentally as he pulled back.
John cleared his throat. "So? What's it mean? You think Tanner's the killer because he needed to stock up on suspicious instruments 'for the bees' or something?"
"Or something," Sherlock said, preoccupied with thinking. He could be so arrogant, but when he was thinking he wasn't aware of himself at all, which was probably about as unguarded as Sherlock would ever get. John looked on for a long while before Sherlock finally walked away to get into the driver's seat. "Are you going to shut the door?" he asked imperiously while John was doing just that.
John didn't argue, though, just slid into the passenger seat and wondered how he'd stumbled into a more psychologically complex version of The Odd Couple.
***
John was standing in his cold kitchen in pajamas and a heavy wool sweater, and he had just finished priding himself on not gagging on his imperfectly-stirred instant coffee when the cup dropped from his hand and shattered, just a second after the door to his trailer blew open.
A windgust? An intruder? Dammit, he knew not everyone around here locked the doors at night, but he sure did, he was sure he did.
It was an intruder of sorts, but one John was getting used to having around in every waking moment: it was Sherlock, standing there on his threshold, and vibrating so hard with rage that it didn't even seem like his eyes were taking in every humiliating detail as they normally would. Thank God for small mercies, John thought.
"I can't believe I've been interrupted," Sherlock said, hissing through his teeth. "I'm so close on this case, so close. And then, my brother . . . " He said it like an obscenity. "Get dressed, John, we have to go and get this over with."
"Excuse me?" John said, looking in vain for a rag to mop up the coffee spill with. "We? Where? Your brother did what?"
"Won't take no for an answer. Insists I at least meet with him. Matter of national security, he said. What do I care? He could figure it out if he wanted to, he's no dumber than I am."
"What did you just say?"
"That Mycroft is at least as smart as me. I won't repeat it, but it's obvious."
"I just wanted to be sure I heard right, that's all, go on."
"Get dressed. You have to come with me. I told him I wouldn't go at all without you, so he had to accept that."
John counted to five. "Okay, but where are we going?"
"White Sulphur Springs. The Greenbrier, of course, where else, that arrogant martinet. Such a flair for drama."
"Well, thank God you're above that." Then John did a double take. "Did you just say the Greenbrier? I don't have clothes for that kinda place. I never have!"
Sherlock smiled for the first time since he'd barged in. "I trust your judgment."
Oh dear God I am fucked, John thought, and left Sherlock standing in what passed for the kitchen, without bothering to offer coffee. He took a quick look at the window, and sure enough, there was Sherlock's hearse, aimed in a half-assed diagonal direction at the driveway.
"Sure you won't let me drive?" John asked. "We could take my truck. Might fit in better." He looked at Sherlock and started to laugh. Finally, Sherlock did too.
"I don't think so, John."
"Why does your hearse have a gun rack?"
"To fit in better."
***
According to the crude road map on John's lap, and his best efforts at eyeballing it against the scale line, the distance from Stanger to White Sulphur Springs was a little over 50 miles as the crow flies. None of the roads they were on were built with crows in mind, and for all the hearse's charming qualities, it didn't seem like it could fly (Though it came close, once, when a huge coal truck swerved around a blind curve taking up two-thirds of the road, and he and Sherlock were on the wrong side. Sherlock had good reflexes at least.)
"I bet the roads comin' from Nothern Virginia are a lot better," John said. "The Greenbrier wasn't built for coaltown people."
"It needs to be heated in the winter just like anywhere else," Sherlock said sullenly. "It's got railroad tracks for that."
"So are you gonna tell me more about your brother?"
"You met him," Sherlock said. "You tell me something."
"He said he was in the hotel business."
"Ah yes, that little grain of truth. Tell me, do you think he manages hotels? Owns them?"
"Probably not."
Sherlock chuckled coldly. "The hotel he's most concerned with right now is the Watergate."
Oh. "So he's some kind of government fixer. A spook?"
"Mycroft might tell you he occupies a minor position in the US Government."
John absorbed this for a second. Well, it did explain some things, more or less, or at least had the suggestion of an explanation. "And is it true what they say about the Greenbrier? You know, underground, the bunker thing . . . like in Dr. Strangelove?"
"The underground bunker that nearly all nations involved in the Cold War have, to sequester the key figures of government in case of a nuclear attack? Yes, it's true. Don't let Mycroft know you've heard of it. It'll make him underestimate you less, and that could cause us difficulties."
John sat back for a little while, and watched the gray mountain ridges undulating overhead and watched the wall of trees pass by, broken from time to time by old houses and stores.
"You don't get along with your brother too good," John finally said. "Is he really that bad?"
Sherlock tightened his lips, and the gear shift made an awful sound under his hand. "Sibling rivalry has a long history in my family," he said. "You've seen my house. My great-grandfather built it as an older man, in 1887. He's buried at Arlington. His brother's in a Confederate cemetery in Virginia."
"Not an uncommon story around here."
"There's the niece who married a Hatfield, and the nephew a McCoy. There's the great-uncle who was a union organizer, and the one who was a – "
"Pinkerton?" John cut in.
"Baldwin-Felts, actually, but the principle applies."
"Battle of Blair Mountain?"
"Afraid so."
John whistled softly. "Your family tree's got a cliché on every branch."
"Holmeses don't miss out on history. Our particular defect."
"Watsons do."
Sherlock took his eyes off the road for far too long to study John. "You didn't."
John sighed, and addressed that gaze as straight-on as he could bear to. "Yeah, but I cain't say I achieved much. At least my name ain't on some memorial yet."
"You code-switch when you talk about your past."
"What?"
"Normally, the way you talk when you speak to me alone isn't the same way you sound when you talk to, say, Lestrade. You're highly educated and you've traveled, and I think when you're speaking to someone in Washington you'd sound very different. But the things that make you sad, they bring out the Appalachian dialect that's just as natural to you. Why?"
"Sherlock, you are one nosy son of a bitch, anyone ever tell you that?"
Sherlock pouted. Then he snorted. Then he looked out the window. Then he looked back. "Yes. Yes, they certainly have." The thickness in his voice was from laughter. "But you're the one who lurked around my yard."
John just looked back and burst out laughing too. For such a dramatic figure, Sherlock had kind of a goofy laugh. It was a nice thing to hear; John had been braced for a long sulk.
After that, there came a silence that John would call 'companionable' if anyone was there to ask.
Being with Sherlock was a bit like being hungry for so long you couldn't even tell how poorly your brain was functioning or what a bad mood you were in. It was hard to think clearly with Sherlock being so present, and John didn't even notice it till he'd got away from him for a minute and the fog had lifted.
John hated to admit it, but he did like being overwhelmed by a force greater than himself – it made him, by default of being a part of it, somehow greater.
He didn't necessarily like feeling this way, but you couldn't deny it was better than not feeling anything, or at least that it was more interesting.
They passed Christmas tree farms, antiques stores, and countless billboards on the road, and the unexpected relief John felt whenever he saw a brand name he recognized, some local lawyer or healthcare provider, wasn't a simple matter of relief or recognition or even repetition – you never realized everything was run down and poor as shit when you were a kid. Realizing it now brought a strange sense of vindication, like you knew you were dissatisfied growing up but now you could latch onto a reason why, whether it was true or not.
On the other hand, you never understood how much you missed your home until you let yourself hate it and were dragged kicking and screaming back to it against your will, because then it surprised you with memory at every turn.
"You're going to pull something if you keep thinking so hard," Sherlock advised, eyes on the road. His voice was low and hushed as if in respect for the empty country around them.
"Well, there is something I've been wondering about." John shifted around in the passenger seat, leaned halfway against the window the better to look at Sherlock, who probably didn't even known how slouch. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why haven't you been on the case with all these murders, before? This has been going on for over a year, right?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Not all of them were under Sheriff Lestrade's jurisdiction, of course. Terry McKenna was the first in Arthel County. Well . . . parts of him were, anyway. The only reason they came to me was because they had no suspects."
"And did you find any?"
Sherlock skipped right over that one. "I looked into the other murders, after that, for any possible connections to point me in the right direction. The only thing they all had in common – every single murder in the last year in this and the surrounding counties – was that obviously innocent people were convicted in all but one of them. They never even found enough evidence to convict someone of Selena Adkisson's, murder, according to Lestrade, but in truth they were deplorably lazy and just chalked it up to bad blood between her and some people back in Knoxville. I'm almost convinced one of the good sheriff's loyal little deputies is the culprit, though, at least in her case.
"The rest were your standard, backwoods domestic spats gone wrong, or at least that's what was assumed. I assumed it, too, which is why I didn't bother wasting my time investigating. Lestrade asked for my help on a few of them, probably because some were kin or friends of kin or distant church acquaintances of his wife's or something, but also because they weren't technically his cases, and I'm not technically a detective.
"Then there was Josephine Bahr, the schoolteacher from up Mullens way. Her body was pretty badly mangled, which was dramatic but not particularly notable. Terry's was even worse, though, and given the most recent find, it seems like a pattern is forming. The killer is either getting sloppier, or angrier, or running out of time. For what, though? I've been waiting months now for another strike, and it hasn't yielded as much in the way of new clues as I had hoped. Until now, of course."
John let it ring in the air for a minute. "Do you always have to be so . . . so . . ."
"Magniloquent. And yes, I do. How else am I supposed to set myself apart from the average hillfolk of southern West Virginia?"
John gave him a once over. "Where to start? The air of mystery, the coat, the cheekbones . . . "
"Shut up, John." But he half-smiled.
***
Chapter 6
Authors:
htebazytook and vulgarweedBeta Read By:
bethbethbeth THANK YOU!Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
In this chapter: John starts to see the battlefield - and then the US Government calls.
Chapter 5 - Ain't No Fortunate Son
"Aren't you ordering anything?" John asked after the waitress finished pouring his coffee and left to tend to the other diner patrons.
"Food isn't necessary," Sherlock said dismissively. He swiveled moodily on the stool next to John. "Slows the mind."
"Uh, I beg to differ, Sherlock. At least order some coffee when she comes back. Come on, doctor's orders."
Sherlock shrugged, fingers tapping restlessly on the bar. His mind was still as preoccupied as it had been back at the swimming hole. John took a sip of his own coffee, and when he set it back on the bar Sherlock flinched as if John's very presence was an imposition. "Why did you want to eat?"
Very patiently, John said, "It usually helps me think. And, just so you know, saying 'Because I was hungry' is actually a perfectly valid reason for wanting to eat and doesn't really need any sarcastic follow up questions."
Sherlock wasn't convinced. He raised an eyebrow skeptically like he was actually Spock and resumed his staring contest with the menu board. God, it was like dealing with a child. John was considering asking the pretty young waitress for a coloring book.
They weren't the only ones in the diner, but it wasn't anywhere near full capacity. Too early, yet. The place was all cheery bright reds and black and white tiled walls, worn-in stools at the bar and outdated appliances behind the counter. The plates had little blue and yellow flowers on them, and the silverware came with those too-small paper napkins you only had at home.
He and Sherlock had gotten more than a few looks when they'd first come in, Sherlock shoving the door in so the bell rang violently before swooping inside with a scowl like the Caped Crusader, because really, that coat of his was just too much.
"I'm not the most popular guy in town," Sherlock said.
"Okay how are you reading my mind, exactly? Is it all down to the angle of my head or the exact amount of coffee I've drunk or what?"
It got a hint of a smile out of him, at least. "Well, you're staring at them staring at me. Wasn't much of a leap."
"So, let's have it. Why do people, uh . . . ?"
"Despise me? Well, the obvious explanation would be jealousy, but in reality it's mostly just generic stupidity."
"Uh . . ."
"I'm different things to different people, anything they want me to be, really. Some are convinced I'm a communist."
"And are you?"
Sherlock snorted. "Politics don't matter to me. They come and go. Others think I'm a radical."
John laughed. "You? Oh come on, have these people even met you?"
"It's complicated," was all Sherlock said to that. "You know, I think I will order some coffee or something . . . "
"Wait, are you some kind of radical?"
"Why don't you ask Sheriff Lestrade about all that?" Sherlock said testily. "He's more interested in the fine print of the law than I am."
"Okay, what are you talking about?"
"Suffice it to say he hasn't turned me in yet despite some very compelling warrants for my arrest in a couple of states, but he does it in exchange for my occasional help, so who's really the criminal here? I didn't even do anything. I just 'knew too much' about things that were abundantly obvious to anyone who bothered even trying to look. But that's people for you."
"So you're indebted to a corrupt cop, is that what you're saying?"
"I trust him more than a professedly moral cop who insists he can't be bought."
"So when you say 'radical' . . ."
"Oh, don't say it like that. You certainly aren't overly fond of the government. You aren't a Weatherman like I am, apparently, but still, you've got your reasons . . ." Sherlock was getting crankier by the minute. How had John gotten stuck with him, again?
"Hey there, Sherlock, maybe you should try eating something. Do you good."
"I told you," Sherlock snapped. "Slows the mind."
"Fine. Sorry for bringing it up," John said, sighed and folded his arms. "So, you're not politically minded at all? Come on, that can't be true. You've gotta have an opinion about the war, at least, though I'll thank you not to be too loud about it, this very minute. Surprised you weren't in the war, actually, a guy your age." Well, Sherlock looked young.
Nonchalantly, "Oh I was drafted, but they wouldn't take me."
"Um, how's that?"
"I believe the official reason was 'psychologically unfit'."
"So . . . no kids? No family?"
"No."
"Me, too. I mean, me either," John said, then because it looked like Sherlock might've thought he was being sarcastic, he added, "Groovy," and immediately wanted to kick himself.
Sherlock raised another eyebrow. "None of that is really my area. And especially the hippie slang."
"No, I know, I just. You know. It's cool. Whatever . . . shakes your . . . boat. I'm gonna shut up now. "
"I think that's for the best," Sherlock said. "Man."
Thankfully the waitress chose that moment to bring John his order.
John had wanted a gigantic, nearly burnt cheeseburger with overflowing ketchup and mustard and pickles and just the works the whole time he'd been in Southeast Asia. And he'd gotten one as soon as he'd landed in D.C., but it hadn't tasted like comfort food at all.
Sometimes, and very rarely, John's platoon would come across locals who didn't give them dirty looks or terrified looks, and they'd instead give the soldiers this noodley soup, phở, which seemed to be their version of comfort food, and it had tasted enough like Campbell's Chicken Noodle after weeks of gritty rations to feel fiercely comforting, too.
"You miss it," Sherlock stated.
"Mm?" John said around a mouthful of soup. Eating and looking sidelong at Sherlock at the same time was a bit challenging.
"The war."
"What the hell? Of course not."
"You miss the excitement of it," Sherlock amended, then affected a local accent: "And Lord knows there ain't much in the way of excitement in Stanger."
"Well, I hear there's been this string of harrowing murders, but other than that . . ."
Sherlock was almost grinning. Almost. He spoke nostalgically: "The first was Rose Ewart, found about a year ago with multiple stab wounds in a river in Wyoming County, although the cause of death was methanol poisoning. A month later Selena Adkisson was bludgeoned to death and her body was dumped in a river, too, in McDowell. Nobody thought much of it because she was not only black but an out-of-towner. Not even Lestrade thinks that one's connected, but I'm sure it is. The next was Kelly Milligan. Her body was found Easter Sunday at the graveyard, just propped up against one of the graves for all to see. Josephine Bahr and Terry McKenna were killed this last summer. Josephine was a schoolteacher, and she was shot dead. Terry is, to date, the only male who's been killed. Not enough data to know if there's a significance to that. His was also the most gruesome murder until now. At least Hannah's body is mostly intact."
"Oh." What the hell else was John supposed to say? "And you don't have any idea how they're connected?"
Sherlock bristled. "Other than the fact that they were all murdered at random over the last year? Nothing, really, except how unusual it is to have so many homicides so close together. And two of them - well, two and a half of them - found here? The last time anyone was convicted of murder in Arthel County was over ten years ago."
"Seriously?"
"I did say convicted."
"Gotcha." The waitress walked by again and John realized he'd barely touched his soup. "I mean, why can't it just be a bunch of unrelated coincidences?"
"No, it has to be connected."
"Why, 'cause that's more interesting?"
Sherlock didn't answer, just rested his chin on his hands and stared at the glossy tiled wall. After a long moment he stood up, shoved his hands sullenly in his pockets and stalked toward the door.
John looked frantically from his still piping hot soup to the preoccupied waitress and back to Sherlock's retreating figure. He was not getting left behind again. He prayed the cash he threw on the counter covered the bill, then scurried on after Sherlock again.
***
"Where are we going?"
"Need to run some errands. Might as well do something productive." Sherlock mumbled it as they ricocheted down a windy road. They passed a few mismatched wooden signs (TACKLE, BAIT, FLY RODS and TOBACCO OUTLET ONE MILE AHEAD and GUNS! BUY - SELL - TRADE GUN DEPOT) before eventually pulling up to a lonely general store with a rusting roof. Crispy-dead ragweed was smeared between the tentative background trees, and one lonely sumac stuck out redly in defiance of winter.
Sherlock hopped out and made for the store, and he'd never waited for John once, had he? John was starting to wonder if Sherlock even remembered he was there, sighed his frustration to the endlessly disturbing hearse with its stately profile and its seafoam green curtains. And why the hell were the curtains even there, anyway?
"Coming?" Sherlock called, standing in the middle of the dusty, otherwise empty parking lot and looking at John like he could read his every fleeting thought. As dismissive as Sherlock could be, John couldn't remember ever being noticed so much, either.
That's not to say Sherlock didn't turn around just as quickly and continue walking. John caught up with him eventually, struck by the loneliness of the place, here on the edge of fitful woods and far from civilization. Cheerful new John Deere's beckoned in desperate contrast to the grey-brown wood of the building, and the empty road they'd driven in on escaped in a hurry away toward town. The encroaching sugar maples were so silent.
John peered through the store's poster-choked front door – bingo night on Thursdays and that glitzy country star what's-her-name winking at him slyly – and could just glimpse Sherlock moving rapidly through the crowded shelves inside.
John found him among the horse bridles and harnesses juggling an armful of paraphernalia. Sherlock didn't say anything by way of explanation as he handed John a slightly curved metal something and then wandered off. John sighed again, and followed him. Not tripping over the girl restocking the lower shelves was a near thing.
The aisles were so cramped that Sherlock brushed inconsiderately against John as he passed by and headed to the front of the store to get rung up. John sighed for the third and, he was determined, final time before following again.
Sherlock barely flinched when John thrust the metal object an inch away from his nose. "The hell is this supposed to be, exactly?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took it from him. "For the bees, John."
"Oh right, well, of course I should've known that." John peered at the pile on the counter – fishing wire and cigarettes and . . . "Hey, uh, didn't you just give me a lecture about the evils of chewing tobacco?"
"Messiness."
"How . . ."
"Messiness, not evil. And it's not for me."
"Oh, so you're supporting my addiction, now?"
Sherlock shrugged. "You were almost out. And you're less likely to be cranky in the future if you've got easy access to one of your coping mechanisms."
John couldn't tell if Sherlock was being secretly nice or just inadvertently nice. At this point John would take what he could get.
The cashier handed Sherlock a receipt. "Thanks again, Mr. Holmes. I must get at least half my business from you. Gotta tell you, though, it ain't easy keeping all these fancy chemistry accoutrements in stock."
"No, I bet it isn't," Sherlock said. "Thank you, Mr. Wiggins."
"Not a problem, not a problem. Take care now."
Sherlock turned, and John turned, and the girl who'd nearly tripped John up before succeeded expertly in tripping Sherlock, now.
Sherlock's purchases clattered to the floor along with the bundle she'd been carrying. Papers rained in slow motion all around, and she muttered apologies while a dozen reproductions of the country singer's face seemed to smirk at her clumsiness.
She stood up, and John recognized her.
"Oh, I am terrible sorry, mister, really I am," said the girl from the dance, the one with no time for friends or boys or any inclination to give John the time of day. She didn't even bother to glance at him now, either, just fiddled with her long yellow hair and fixated on Sherlock instead of gathering her things.
John wasn't surprised to see her – you just ran into people, in small communities, and most stores managed to be the only place to get That One Thing. You didn't, however, usually run into people who had looked like death froze over but took a sudden turn for the amicable after catching sight of Sherlock Holmes and his oh-so-alluring aloofness and his, you know, his piercing gaze or whatever.
"Forget it," Sherlock said, and John had a strange little panic before realizing he was addressing the girl. Sneering at her, really, not that it deterred the starry-eyed look she was favoring him with.
"I'm so, so sorry, sir," she kept repeating, and the sing-song quality to her voice was grating. Even more annoying than her former iciness. It was a good thing Sherlock wasn't interested.
"I said forget it," Sherlock repeated flatly. She smiled so sweetly in return, but he just snatched up his things and left without helping her sort out the mess. John dithered for a minute before following him, and he didn't even remember to sigh about it.
Sherlock was busy organizing the trunk of, no, the back of the hearse. The inside of the hearse? He straightened up as John approached, hair perpetually askew in a way that made John want to smooth it down.
"Just fits," Sherlock said proudly.
John peered into the hearse. It was literally brimming with random odds and ends. "Nice hoard you got there. I – "
Sherlock shoved him against the door, firm hand on John's shoulder. "Someone's coming."
"Um, so what? Hey!" Sherlock shoved him a little further until John was more or less inside the hearse, and John was pretty sure there was a rifle and a toolbox and at least one spare tire digging into his back. "Sherlock," he hissed, but Sherlock just shushed him and pressed himself flat against the precarious contents of the hearse as much as possible. Sherlock breathed very evenly, but John could still feel it ghosting through his hair. He got distracted with wondering what it took to get Sherlock less even and more erratic, in general. Sherlock hadn't lessened his grip on John's shoulder a bit and the air was so thin with cold that John couldn't breathe.
A pickup pulled into the parking lot not a minute later. "Tanner Greer," Sherlock announced in a whisper, felt suddenly closer because his voice resonated in John's ears. John craned his neck to see but Sherlock just shoved him back down. "You'll give us away."
"Seriously? Don't you think the hearse is a bit of a give away?"
"No, actually," Sherlock breathed. John got a look at this face, eyes darting around at unseen things in the background before finding John again. They were pale and silvery, right now, and the angle of the emerging noontime sun made his eyelashes glow around the edges. "People instinctively don't notice hearses. And if they do, it's only out of respect for whoever might be inside. They certainly don't start speculating on its driver's potential ulterior motives."
"But of course," John said sarcastically. "Nobody expects the local undertaker!"
Sherlock gave him a blanker look than usual.
"British comedy. Thought you, at least, would appreciate the dryness." John went to rub at the back of his neck but Sherlock captured his wrist and held that still too. "You know, Sherlock, you're insisting I shut up and don't move, but I've gotta point out you're doing a lot of jumping around here just to keep me at bay."
"Shh, they're coming back."
"What do you mean, 'they'?"
"Shh!" Sherlock leaned into John like he was just another piece of junk to get a better view – cold clung to the buttons of his coat and made John shiver – then ducked down when the pickup drove off, side of his face against the side of John's face for a minute and his lips dragged over John's cheek accidentally as he pulled back.
John cleared his throat. "So? What's it mean? You think Tanner's the killer because he needed to stock up on suspicious instruments 'for the bees' or something?"
"Or something," Sherlock said, preoccupied with thinking. He could be so arrogant, but when he was thinking he wasn't aware of himself at all, which was probably about as unguarded as Sherlock would ever get. John looked on for a long while before Sherlock finally walked away to get into the driver's seat. "Are you going to shut the door?" he asked imperiously while John was doing just that.
John didn't argue, though, just slid into the passenger seat and wondered how he'd stumbled into a more psychologically complex version of The Odd Couple.
***
John was standing in his cold kitchen in pajamas and a heavy wool sweater, and he had just finished priding himself on not gagging on his imperfectly-stirred instant coffee when the cup dropped from his hand and shattered, just a second after the door to his trailer blew open.
A windgust? An intruder? Dammit, he knew not everyone around here locked the doors at night, but he sure did, he was sure he did.
It was an intruder of sorts, but one John was getting used to having around in every waking moment: it was Sherlock, standing there on his threshold, and vibrating so hard with rage that it didn't even seem like his eyes were taking in every humiliating detail as they normally would. Thank God for small mercies, John thought.
"I can't believe I've been interrupted," Sherlock said, hissing through his teeth. "I'm so close on this case, so close. And then, my brother . . . " He said it like an obscenity. "Get dressed, John, we have to go and get this over with."
"Excuse me?" John said, looking in vain for a rag to mop up the coffee spill with. "We? Where? Your brother did what?"
"Won't take no for an answer. Insists I at least meet with him. Matter of national security, he said. What do I care? He could figure it out if he wanted to, he's no dumber than I am."
"What did you just say?"
"That Mycroft is at least as smart as me. I won't repeat it, but it's obvious."
"I just wanted to be sure I heard right, that's all, go on."
"Get dressed. You have to come with me. I told him I wouldn't go at all without you, so he had to accept that."
John counted to five. "Okay, but where are we going?"
"White Sulphur Springs. The Greenbrier, of course, where else, that arrogant martinet. Such a flair for drama."
"Well, thank God you're above that." Then John did a double take. "Did you just say the Greenbrier? I don't have clothes for that kinda place. I never have!"
Sherlock smiled for the first time since he'd barged in. "I trust your judgment."
Oh dear God I am fucked, John thought, and left Sherlock standing in what passed for the kitchen, without bothering to offer coffee. He took a quick look at the window, and sure enough, there was Sherlock's hearse, aimed in a half-assed diagonal direction at the driveway.
"Sure you won't let me drive?" John asked. "We could take my truck. Might fit in better." He looked at Sherlock and started to laugh. Finally, Sherlock did too.
"I don't think so, John."
"Why does your hearse have a gun rack?"
"To fit in better."
***
According to the crude road map on John's lap, and his best efforts at eyeballing it against the scale line, the distance from Stanger to White Sulphur Springs was a little over 50 miles as the crow flies. None of the roads they were on were built with crows in mind, and for all the hearse's charming qualities, it didn't seem like it could fly (Though it came close, once, when a huge coal truck swerved around a blind curve taking up two-thirds of the road, and he and Sherlock were on the wrong side. Sherlock had good reflexes at least.)
"I bet the roads comin' from Nothern Virginia are a lot better," John said. "The Greenbrier wasn't built for coaltown people."
"It needs to be heated in the winter just like anywhere else," Sherlock said sullenly. "It's got railroad tracks for that."
"So are you gonna tell me more about your brother?"
"You met him," Sherlock said. "You tell me something."
"He said he was in the hotel business."
"Ah yes, that little grain of truth. Tell me, do you think he manages hotels? Owns them?"
"Probably not."
Sherlock chuckled coldly. "The hotel he's most concerned with right now is the Watergate."
Oh. "So he's some kind of government fixer. A spook?"
"Mycroft might tell you he occupies a minor position in the US Government."
John absorbed this for a second. Well, it did explain some things, more or less, or at least had the suggestion of an explanation. "And is it true what they say about the Greenbrier? You know, underground, the bunker thing . . . like in Dr. Strangelove?"
"The underground bunker that nearly all nations involved in the Cold War have, to sequester the key figures of government in case of a nuclear attack? Yes, it's true. Don't let Mycroft know you've heard of it. It'll make him underestimate you less, and that could cause us difficulties."
John sat back for a little while, and watched the gray mountain ridges undulating overhead and watched the wall of trees pass by, broken from time to time by old houses and stores.
"You don't get along with your brother too good," John finally said. "Is he really that bad?"
Sherlock tightened his lips, and the gear shift made an awful sound under his hand. "Sibling rivalry has a long history in my family," he said. "You've seen my house. My great-grandfather built it as an older man, in 1887. He's buried at Arlington. His brother's in a Confederate cemetery in Virginia."
"Not an uncommon story around here."
"There's the niece who married a Hatfield, and the nephew a McCoy. There's the great-uncle who was a union organizer, and the one who was a – "
"Pinkerton?" John cut in.
"Baldwin-Felts, actually, but the principle applies."
"Battle of Blair Mountain?"
"Afraid so."
John whistled softly. "Your family tree's got a cliché on every branch."
"Holmeses don't miss out on history. Our particular defect."
"Watsons do."
Sherlock took his eyes off the road for far too long to study John. "You didn't."
John sighed, and addressed that gaze as straight-on as he could bear to. "Yeah, but I cain't say I achieved much. At least my name ain't on some memorial yet."
"You code-switch when you talk about your past."
"What?"
"Normally, the way you talk when you speak to me alone isn't the same way you sound when you talk to, say, Lestrade. You're highly educated and you've traveled, and I think when you're speaking to someone in Washington you'd sound very different. But the things that make you sad, they bring out the Appalachian dialect that's just as natural to you. Why?"
"Sherlock, you are one nosy son of a bitch, anyone ever tell you that?"
Sherlock pouted. Then he snorted. Then he looked out the window. Then he looked back. "Yes. Yes, they certainly have." The thickness in his voice was from laughter. "But you're the one who lurked around my yard."
John just looked back and burst out laughing too. For such a dramatic figure, Sherlock had kind of a goofy laugh. It was a nice thing to hear; John had been braced for a long sulk.
After that, there came a silence that John would call 'companionable' if anyone was there to ask.
Being with Sherlock was a bit like being hungry for so long you couldn't even tell how poorly your brain was functioning or what a bad mood you were in. It was hard to think clearly with Sherlock being so present, and John didn't even notice it till he'd got away from him for a minute and the fog had lifted.
John hated to admit it, but he did like being overwhelmed by a force greater than himself – it made him, by default of being a part of it, somehow greater.
He didn't necessarily like feeling this way, but you couldn't deny it was better than not feeling anything, or at least that it was more interesting.
They passed Christmas tree farms, antiques stores, and countless billboards on the road, and the unexpected relief John felt whenever he saw a brand name he recognized, some local lawyer or healthcare provider, wasn't a simple matter of relief or recognition or even repetition – you never realized everything was run down and poor as shit when you were a kid. Realizing it now brought a strange sense of vindication, like you knew you were dissatisfied growing up but now you could latch onto a reason why, whether it was true or not.
On the other hand, you never understood how much you missed your home until you let yourself hate it and were dragged kicking and screaming back to it against your will, because then it surprised you with memory at every turn.
"You're going to pull something if you keep thinking so hard," Sherlock advised, eyes on the road. His voice was low and hushed as if in respect for the empty country around them.
"Well, there is something I've been wondering about." John shifted around in the passenger seat, leaned halfway against the window the better to look at Sherlock, who probably didn't even known how slouch. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why haven't you been on the case with all these murders, before? This has been going on for over a year, right?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Not all of them were under Sheriff Lestrade's jurisdiction, of course. Terry McKenna was the first in Arthel County. Well . . . parts of him were, anyway. The only reason they came to me was because they had no suspects."
"And did you find any?"
Sherlock skipped right over that one. "I looked into the other murders, after that, for any possible connections to point me in the right direction. The only thing they all had in common – every single murder in the last year in this and the surrounding counties – was that obviously innocent people were convicted in all but one of them. They never even found enough evidence to convict someone of Selena Adkisson's, murder, according to Lestrade, but in truth they were deplorably lazy and just chalked it up to bad blood between her and some people back in Knoxville. I'm almost convinced one of the good sheriff's loyal little deputies is the culprit, though, at least in her case.
"The rest were your standard, backwoods domestic spats gone wrong, or at least that's what was assumed. I assumed it, too, which is why I didn't bother wasting my time investigating. Lestrade asked for my help on a few of them, probably because some were kin or friends of kin or distant church acquaintances of his wife's or something, but also because they weren't technically his cases, and I'm not technically a detective.
"Then there was Josephine Bahr, the schoolteacher from up Mullens way. Her body was pretty badly mangled, which was dramatic but not particularly notable. Terry's was even worse, though, and given the most recent find, it seems like a pattern is forming. The killer is either getting sloppier, or angrier, or running out of time. For what, though? I've been waiting months now for another strike, and it hasn't yielded as much in the way of new clues as I had hoped. Until now, of course."
John let it ring in the air for a minute. "Do you always have to be so . . . so . . ."
"Magniloquent. And yes, I do. How else am I supposed to set myself apart from the average hillfolk of southern West Virginia?"
John gave him a once over. "Where to start? The air of mystery, the coat, the cheekbones . . . "
"Shut up, John." But he half-smiled.
***
Chapter 6
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 03:28 am (UTC)I like the part where John is remembering eating pho. And, y'know, all the rest of it.
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Date: 2012-11-30 09:18 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
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Date: 2012-12-01 12:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-01 12:11 am (UTC)Plot and everything else aside, getting Sherlock right in this setting was initially quite a challenge for me to wrap my brain around. Of course, Sherlock in any setting is intriguing by nature though
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Date: 2012-11-30 04:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-01 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 04:41 am (UTC)...There are no words for the mental image. :)
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Date: 2012-11-30 09:26 pm (UTC)One big cultural difference between 70s WV (even now) and 2010's London: pretty much every person in this story owns a gun, probably several. They're not hard to come by, nor do you have to make any excuses for them. It's completely normal and unremarkable. Except when you put a gun rack on a hearse. That's a little unusual--but not really shocking.
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Date: 2012-12-01 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 04:47 am (UTC)Huh, either the pho around here is really inauthentic or John's desperation is more than I can imagine to compare pho to Campbell's soup.
Sherlock mentioned John code-switching! Oh man, I love it.
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Date: 2012-11-30 09:30 pm (UTC)And only Sherlock would call it that at that early date - but it's a phenomenon everyone there would be familiar with. I catch myself doing it when I'm talking with friends from back home all the time.
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Date: 2012-12-01 12:22 am (UTC)Oh, pho is not my cup of . . . well, soup. But I imagine even something as unusual as that to backwoods!John would be heavenly under such stressful circumstances
no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 09:48 am (UTC)You're great writer!!!
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Date: 2012-11-30 09:32 pm (UTC)Maybe the two of us add up to one great writer! ;P
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Date: 2012-12-01 12:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 12:35 pm (UTC)Did/do they really serve those?!
And I notice Sherlock never ordered his coffee after all. Bad boy!
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Date: 2012-11-30 09:33 pm (UTC)N, he didn't, and John never really got to eat. He'll get tired of that pretty quick.
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Date: 2012-12-01 09:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-01 12:16 am (UTC)Actually now that I think of it I can kinda see baby!Sherlock doing something along those lines
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Date: 2012-12-01 09:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-01 04:15 pm (UTC)How odd. Is this another cultural difference thing? We love our ice-cold, super-refrigerated everything over here, especially in the South.
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Date: 2012-12-01 04:31 pm (UTC)My parents went to extremes after I had two throat infections, though. (I hardly remember the infections, but the long thirsty waits are very fresh in my mind.)
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Date: 2012-11-30 04:01 pm (UTC)Okay, and the gun rack. XD
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Date: 2012-11-30 09:48 pm (UTC)People love that gun rack. I would too.
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Date: 2012-12-01 12:19 am (UTC)Wiggins is the leader of the Baker Street Irregulars, but I mean I'm not saying this general store guy is anything more than a one-line extra. But then again I'm not saying he isn't either.
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Date: 2012-12-01 04:09 pm (UTC)stovewikipedia =pno subject
Date: 2012-11-30 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-30 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-01 12:06 am (UTC)And thank you especially for finding it sounds canon, accents notwithstanding
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Date: 2012-12-01 10:03 pm (UTC)It’s nice to see them working together, though . . . well, when I say “together” let’s say Sherlock leading and John following!
” It was hard to think clearly with Sherlock being so present, and John didn't even notice it till he'd got away from him for a minute and the fog had lifted.”
But it’s great that he’s starting to have just a little input. It’s still a most intriguing mystery, though – taxing Sherlock’s brain to the limit!