The Bone Fiddle, Chapter 8/13
Dec. 5th, 2012 09:44 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
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Download the fanmix
In this chapter: John may have momentarily forgotten that there's a case to be solved, but Sherlock hasn't.
Chapter 8 - Sisters, What Will You Do?
John only managed to haul himself out by carving a foothole in the grave wall – and also with a slight assist from Sherlock's hands on his rear, pushing him up, and taking a gratuitous, non-utilitarian squeeze. That did at least give John the leverage to offer Sherlock a hand from up top, and help to pull him out, which had to mean something.
And that was all the time it took before Sheriff Greg Lestrade and Deputy Sally Donovan came shouting and running through the woods, calling out to announce their presence; John and Sherlock both knew they were in emergency mode and would be coming through with adrenaline blazing, so they established themselves in non-threatening poses.
"What the – " Lestrade cried as he surveyed the scene. "We got called out cause someone saw lights and heard screaming and shots."
Donovan glanced around more freely, drew conclusions, looked at Sherlock, and gasped, "You sick freak!"
"No, Deputy, it's not like that – " John blurted. It's worse. He couldn't help but notice that of course Sherlock had managed to reclaim his coat, which was long and full enough to hide a multitude of sins, and he himself was stuck holding a miner's helmet over his groin in a very unnatural way. He also couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's hair was full of dirt and dead leaves.
Sherlock paced around close to Donovan, the better to dominate her with his height. "I assure you, Sally, a true necrophile would want a much fresher corpse."
"Hell, Sherlock, I came here 'cause we got called," Lestrade said. "Lady on the phone was sure it was devil worshippers."
"I'm still not sure it isn't," said Donovan.
"Obviously not," Sherlock said coldly, ignoring her and switching his attention to Lestrade. "I'm working on a lead that will eventually help me solve the Hartman case. I know that's the one you care about most, since that's the one that's most recent and right in town. You've let so many others go without calling me, but this one hits close to home for you, doesn't it? You need it solved. You need there to be no further killings in your back yard."
John saw anger cross Lestrade's face, but the sheriff breathed deep and held it down. "And for that, you need to . . . dig up random fifty-year-old graves?"
"Not random," Sherlock said. "You should know me better than that by now. And we're not the first ones to dig here this year."
"Sherlock, you can't just go off on your own. You gotta keep me in the loop."
"John's here," Sherlock defended, and John felt all the attention shift to him.
"I'm here," John echoed lamely.
"Listen." Lestrade was not amused. "You're trespassing. I cain't always look the other way whenever a jaunt through someone else's property strikes your fancy."
"You will," Sherlock said. "You need me."
Lestrade shut up, clearly biting his tongue. Then, Sherlock headed back to the grave.
"Whoa, whoa," Lestrade said. "I'm not gonna let you actually continue disturbin' some poor bastard's grave while I'm standin' right here."
"I would like to get the shovels that are still in some poor bastard's grave. As long as it's okay with you of course, Sheriff."
Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face wearily. "Fine, just. Hurry up." He was already walking back to the car.
Donovan took a step forward. "Sheriff?"
"Gotta tell 'em it's a false alarm."
While she was busy looking concerned Sherlock manifested at John's side and breathed, "Distract her," into John's ear before disappearing again.
"You okay?" Donovan said, turning back to him. John was glad his suddenly flushed face was (hopefully) obscured by darkness.
"Yeah. Yeah, definitely." John walked a little ways to the side so Donovan looked away from the grave to focus on him, tried not to fiddle with the helmet he was still holding in front of himself, no thanks to Sherlock's voice in his ear just now. "So, Deputy, you uh, you from around here?"
Donovan looked mildly startled. "Yes and no. My granddaddy came up here to dig coal during one of the strikes, but my mama's family been here as long as the hills have. You?"
"Kind of. We moved to Charleston when I was younger." It was hard not to let his eyes dart to where Sherlock was plunging into the grave a few feet behind her. "What about Sherlock? He . . . well, he doesn't . . ."
"Yeah, I know. He fits in even worse than I do."
John laughed, which sounded nervous as hell. Sherlock was still in the grave – how long was this gonna take anyway?
"We can offer you protection, you know," Donovan said, inclining her head. "From him. Political asylum or somethin'."
"Not gonna start talkin' politics are we?"
"I'm serious. He's unpredictable. Take my advice, John Watson, 'cause I know. No good comes of associating with the likes of him."
"Smearing my name again?" Sherlock called as he walked up to them carrying the shovels and wearing his miner's helmet, smiling a creepily plastic smile. He was somehow even dirtier than before.
Donovan glared. "Got your shovels? Wonderful. Now get on home." She gave John a meaningful look before stalking back to the sheriff's car.
Sherlock waited till the headlights were no longer visible to speak again. What he said was, "Here," and what he did was produce something from his coat and thrust it into John's arms.
"Ugh, this . . . ugh." Dug up bones and dirt. John tried not to think about the fact that he was holding someone's remains. He wondered what else Sherlock had under that coat, then remembered that he actually had a pretty good idea due to recent events, and then he had to go back to thinking about human remains again.
Sherlock started back toward the woods at a brisk pace.
"What are you going to do with these, anyway?" John asked, miraculously not falling flat on his face while racing after him through the brush. "It's not like you have that bone fiddle at . . . you have the bone fiddle at home, don't you?"
"It's fine, Miss Adler's tour's almost over. We reached an agreement."
They walked back to the hearse in silence, although the shovels clanged and the twigs snapped beneath their feet. The trek seemed even longer than it had on the way over.
Everything was stashed in the back of the hearse amid further silence, and while John's hands were full of bones Sherlock leaned close with his grimy face and eyes gleaming in the poor light . . . and plucked a leaf out of John's hair.
"Oh," John said, heart hammering nonetheless. "Thanks?"
Sherlock closed the door. "Let's go," he said tersely.
A few minutes of bumpy roads and sexual tension later, John said, "Sherlock, I think we should probably talk – "
"Shh."
"Sherlock, it's – "
"No." Sherlock gestured vaguely at himself. "Sh."
So John settled for looking out the window. After so long in the dark you started to see the colors in the night sky – watery gray around the edges and bruised dark blue directly above. His eyelids were getting heavier, but the uneven roads kept him awake.
The hearse pulled into Mrs. Hudson's driveway and stopped. John looked without really registering where they were, then turned to Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed. "Your truck's still here?"
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess it is." John climbed out of the passenger seat, lingered there and held the door open. "So, what's our next move? Do you want me to – ?"
"Shut up, I'm thinking," Sherlock said, reached across to yank John's door shut himself before speeding hazardously off into the night.
John stood alone in the driveway, and it took a lazy breeze with a bitter edge to remind him of how cold it was. The hearse had been cozier than he'd realized.
Mrs. Hudson had left the porch light on and the front door unlocked. Just inside by a little night light that said God Bless This Home was John's laundry, folded and smelling like God probably had blessed it. Next to the laundry basket was a pointedly positioned plate of cookies. She was asleep, but John knew he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't take them along too.
Once he was back at the trailer he put his clothes away automatically, then sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and munched on one of the cookies. It was comfort food, but as soon as he'd finished it it stopped being comforting. He looked around the bland tiny kitchen with its bad lighting.
Only now that he'd stopped moving did John realize how tired he was, mentally as well as physically. But just because he'd stopped and was tired as hell didn't mean he wasn't still stressed as hell, too. His mind wouldn't stop. This was probably how Sherlock felt all the time . . .
He sighed to the empty trailer.
The whatever else that went with Sherlock. John shouldn't dwell on it, really. It was clear that Sherlock wasn't.
John was determined not to think as he sank into the chair and unzipped his jeans and let his fingers trail up his half-hard shaft. Just a little stress relief, that's all.
He tried to focus on the sensation, on simple physical pleasure and the ways he could deny himself just enough for it to build. His mind wandered to random, oddly nonsexual places – the thrill of swimming as a kid, the way you fantasized you were a superhero speeding through the air instead of a kid in a chlorinated pool; the creeping, unlookedfor camaraderie born out of cramming for a test late at night with whoever was in the library; the smell of smoky autumn or the sweet heady height of summer; the breathtaking bend of this chord to that on records your parents listened to late at night. It wasn't that thoughts like these were some kind of turn on, but they were safely, calmly exciting because they flickered with remembered feelings only.
John's hand sped up, but it wasn't quite enough. Of course not. And just like that, any pleasure he was feeling was instantly cheapened by frustration. All he wanted was to feel good for an instant and not think and be able to sleep the whole night through. He loosened the leash on his mind, just a little.
John shouldn't have struggled so much to latch onto a fantasy to get the job done. As was an effort to shuffle through the standby sex symbols, Cheryl Tiegs and Raquel Welch and whoever else was supposed to be an ideal woman, but it wasn't helping. He thought of past girlfriends too, and the ghosts of their touches were more palpable than something all imagined: Sarah and Mary, Birgit and Ute, Mai and Lienh . . . So hot and real at the time, and now? Their memories were fond and sweet and oddly unsubstantial in the wake of something powerful and new. As John jerked himself harder it was like a dam had burst, with every point of friction suddenly good.
He was raw and ragged with want, by now, tugging roughly but the lust that had bubbled up in his chest was dying down again. It still felt good, yeah, but it wasn't enough and God that was frustrating, to be stuck here at almost and this should have been simple, goddammit.
Sherlock probably never has trouble getting off, John thought. He probably has the most efficient masturbatory routine known to man.
Or maybe not. Maybe, once Sherlock got started, he lost that steely control and went weak and wanton.
Like he had underneath John, in the grave. He'd seemed pleased enough with John's technique, what little he'd managed . . . God, Sherlock had been so hard, though, so fucking eager.
But maybe Sherlock touched himself completely differently than John had, when he was alone. Maybe he went torturously slow, and dragged his fingers up and down the length of his cock for ages before bringing himself off.
Maybe sometimes he did that, but other times he was more efficient. Just getting the job done, like John was doing, that's all. Maybe at times like these Sherlock pumped his cock hard and fast from the start, with something to help with the friction like lotion or, oh, saliva. Sherlock spitting in his hand or sucking those lovely long fingers into his mouth before closing them around himself.
John didn't know, he just didn't know because Sherlock hadn't quite gotten around to reciprocating in the grave, although he'd teased John plenty through too many clothes and you know what, just getting to watch Sherlock's eyes unfocusing because of John, just getting to feel him breathing hard with sharp ribs against John's stomach, warm and breathless because of John too, that would've been enough. Sherlock wouldn't even have had to touch John, probably.
Yeah, it would've been enough, but what if Sherlock had touched him? What if he'd got his hand around John's cock or, oh, fuck, his mouth – what if Sherlock had bent in the cramped space and oh, whatever, it was a bed now in his fantasy, a big plush one at the Greenbrier which smelled like cleanliness and comfort.
What if Sherlock had held John's hips down on the expensive mattress and slid John's cock in and out of his mouth, which John had seen slack with surprise or tight with concentration or smirking just a little, but it'd be hot and wet and surrounding John's cock instead, and God, the sight of those lips around him would be too much.
Sherlock would probably know how to make John squirm because he was brilliant and observant, or maybe just by virtue of being a man. He'd know what felt good better than a woman would, right? Had Sherlock been sucked off before? Oh, that image . . . Irene or someone making Sherlock feel as desperate for release as John was now. Sherlock might bite his lip and try not to thrust into her mouth.
John would probably let him, and fuck, John wanted to find out what he would do, find out what made Sherlock moan, how his cock would feel on John's tongue and maybe Sherlock would stare right at him while John was doing it, begging for more or demanding more or just gasping John's name . . .
John came harder than he'd expected, sat bonelessly in the uncomfortable chair for a long time. He staggered off to bed and thought blissfully of nothing. For now, at least.
***
When John woke up the next morning, it was to the redness of morning light seeping through his eyelids, and for those few blessed minutes before he opened them he didn't remember who he was or where he was or anything else. Then, of course, he did remember, and his leg protested as he clambered out of his narrow bed.
He'd woken to the sunlight, which didn't mean sunrise, not up here in the hills. A watch on the dresser read 3 PM and John did a double take. There was no way he'd slept that long, right? God, he must've been more tired than he'd thought. John yawned his way into the kitchen and rummaged for coffee making supplies, pausing to nab one of Mrs. Hudson's cookies.
"Ah, there you are John. The bones were a match."
Fear flooded hotly over John's skin and his hand shot to his gun, which wasn't there, of course, and he dropped a perfectly good cookie in the process. He needn't have worried, though because it was only Sherlock. Or maybe that was even more reason to worry. "Jesus Christ. What the – I – the door was locked!"
Sherlock waved it off. "Theoretically. This place isn't exactly Fort Knox. Anyway, we're going to interview the victim's family. I have the address, and it's only a short drive from here. Well, when I say short . . ."
"Sherlock, I really don't think you're getting the point, here."
"Oh? What's the point?" It looked like he honestly didn't know.
"Just. Never mind." Sherlock was sitting at John's flimsy kitchen table, scarf off and fingers drumming restlessly. How long had he been there? John said, "What do you want?" more bluntly than he'd meant to.
Sherlock didn't notice or didn’t care. He stared out the tiny trailer window while he spoke: "I went to the police station today to let them know the murderer is a local. Only someone who grew up in Stanger would've known about that graveyard. I intercepted Deputy Donovan who advised me that they had already narrowed the suspects themselves. They'd brought Hannah Hartman's sister Elise in for questioning this morning – she's had numerous curfew violations and some other petty charges, some trespassing and disturbances, so it was easy enough to detain her. Not that she protested all that much. Donovan wouldn't let me speak to her, of course, citing some completely irrelevant technicality about my lack of clearances. I did speak with Lestrade afterward, though. Elise, unfortunately, had no real alibi, just some gibberish about being with nature and losing track of time, and apparently when asked point blank whether she was guilty she said, When you put it like that, Sheriff, it certainly makes sense that I would be my sister's killer."
"Oh. So, case closed, just like that?" How anti-climactic.
"Elise isn't the killer. She's a scapegoat like the rest of them, with the added advantage of having half the town convinced she's crazy or at least a radical. In fact I overheard some of Lestrade's finest officers discussing her surely unpredictable, violent tendencies as evidenced by her anti-war rants in the school newspaper. Lestrade doesn't believe all that, of course – he's really not as stupid as he seems – but he'll arrest her anyway just to calm people down. According to him, Maybe the real killer will slip up and be less cautious once we're off his trail, and make it easier to catch him. Lestrade is going with this theory no matter what I say, because Elise as good as confessed and he can't just ignore that. But pinning the crime on someone else has never stopped the killer before. He wouldn't let me talk to her either, so we're going to have to take it from here, John." Sherlock was more gleeful than grim at the prospect.
Oh thank God. "Okay fine, but didn't the cops already do that? Interview her?"
Sherlock laughed. "Also theoretical, as it happens. I need to talk to them, myself."
"Them?"
"Her." Sherlock stood, tying his scarf and drawing John's gaze to the movement of his hands, which were sure and careless and which had been touching John so much so recently.
"Okay," John said, trying not to clench his own hands. "Let me just throw on some – "
"I'll wait."
John felt the weight of Sherlock's eyes as he watched John retreat to his bedroom to dress. When he reemerged in comfy jeans and a shirt that smelled like laundry soap Sherlock's mouth quirked up a little before he led the way outside and seriously, was Sherlock just going to keep doing this? More importantly, how long was John going to keep going along with it?
It wasn't until John was in the hearse again that it occurred to him he'd slept soundly, and without dreaming once.
***
They arrived at the Hartman residence in no time at all. John was silent the whole drive over, and he never even said That's it, this is ludicrous, I don't have to go with you just because you asked, or Just what the hell do you want with me, anyway? He was counting that as a win.
John knew the neighborhood, but his memory of the place was ruled by echoes of childish frustrations, stupid now but epically important at the time. There were plenty of houses, with less distance between them than John remembered. Houses with original siding and tin roofs, sitting away from the road with built-on garages and abandoned projects loitering in the yard, just flickering colored impressions of people's lives through the emptied tree branches.
John got out of the hearse and followed Sherlock along the little path up to the house. It was a warmer day than yesterday, if only because the sun was beating down on them, unchallenged by clouds in the crazy blue of the sky. John found himself relaxing without even trying, and breathed the air in deeply. He was always struck by the easy, familiar smells, here. Farm smells like hay and manure, woods smells like dirt and metallic creek water, the burn of autumn allergens in his lungs.
Sherlock rang the doorbell. There were clean pumpkins and chrysanthemums on the dirty porch.
Mrs. Hartman answered the door, a wonderfully curvy woman with soft yellow hair but a severity to her face, ready with a welcoming smile but it faded a bit when she didn't recognize them. "Can I help you boys?"
"We need to ask you about your daughter's murder," Sherlock said. She didn't budge. "It would probably be easier if you opened the door."
Her eyes narrowed. "Just who do you two think you are, anyway? You with the police or something?"
John jumped in. "Sort of. My name's John Watson, I'm a doctor. This here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Now, I know you've had a hard time of it lately, ma'am, of course you have, but we just need to do some follow up, here. Try and catch whoever's responsible for Hannah's murder and bring 'em to justice."
They were shown into the living room, which was decorated with nice things that didn't go together. Sherlock claimed the La-Z-Boy for himself, and John found a leftover chair from the dining room set nearby. Sherlock studied John's chair, probably thinking about how it was inherited and what that meant about the people who used it, as though knowing things about people meant you knew them.
"Now then," Mrs. Hartman smiled. "What was it you needed answered? We've already told the police all we know, and they're still no closer to finding my baby's killer. Now, I don't have to tell you this is very tryin' time, for us, and – "
"Is your husband home?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
She favored him with quite a look before pursing her lips and disappearing down the hallway.
John leaned forward in his chair. "Do you really think that was necessary? I think she's probably perfectly capable of answering your questions."
"Oh, she is, definitely. She did all the talking at the station, according to Donovan. I'd like to talk to the rest of the family, now."
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, are you honestly going to accuse grieving parents of murdering their own daughter in their home?"
"Of course not, John. She wasn't murdered here."
"Good evenin', gentleman." Mr. Hartman at the door. He had a hospitable enough smile but he was clearly irritated, and he hadn't even talked to Sherlock yet. He looked like the sort of jolly-yet-rugged man who patted you on the back while calling your mother a whore. His wife hovered behind him, broadcasting her irritation a little more clearly.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, not shaking his proffered hand. "Hello. Why did you wait to report your daughter missing, Mr. Hartman?"
Most parents would be indignant at the implication, John would've thought, but Mr. Hartman just laughed and said, "Why, we had no idea she was missin'. Hannah was always out and about, traipsing through the woods, off in her own little world. That was our Hannah . . . We didn't even think nothin' of it, her bein' gone so long."
"No, of course not," Sherlock sighed. "It's not like there's been a murderer on the loose for the past year or so . . ."
Mr. Hartman frowned. "Now, look here – "
"Sir," John placated, "we're just wanting to know if it was usual, her bein' gone for days at a time."
"Why yes, yes it was," Mr. Hartman said, wounded. "My darling girl, she had such spirit – "
"Which isn't at all relevant, here," Sherlock cut in. "What about your other daughter? Where is she? I'll need to talk to her, too."
Mr. Hartman snorted. "You're certainly welcome to try. Not sure what good that'd do, though. She's dug herself into quite a hole and don't give a damn about gettin' out of it."
Mrs. Hartman stepped out from behind her husband. "Elise means well." She sounded like she was still convincing herself of it. "She does. But she just won't listen to reason."
Sherlock made a face that didn't bode well, so John spoke up: "What do you mean, ma'am?"
"The way she talks . . . Well, she's just not practical. She doesn't care a lick about being thrown in jail."
"That's for sure," Mr. Hartman said. "How many times has she been arrested in the last year? She tied herself to a damn tree for God's sake – "
"Oh, just let me talk to her," Sherlock snapped. "We're wasting time."
Mr. Hartman glared at him. "Like I said, you're welcome to try. But she won't talk to you. And on the off chance she does, don’t count on her makin' no sense." An intake of breath and it seemed like he had more to say, but he shut himself up and left instead. A minute later the back door slammed.
"I'll get her," Mrs. Hartman said, putting on a smile, then climbed the stairs to fetch her remaining daughter.
"Okay," John said, once they were alone. "Just what did you expect to get out of all that, Sherlock? Does it help to be an ass?"
"Sometimes."
John waited for the punchline, but there wasn't one. "They do have a point, you know. She won't give us much if she's not, you know, all there."
"It's not the source of the data that matters, but the correct interpretation of it. And anyway people who aren't 'all there' are infinitely more engaging than those who are."
John watched Sherlock pick up a doily from the coffee table, frown at it and sniff it and replace it in irritation, and had to agree.
Idly, and like it wasn't horrible, Sherlock said, "Hannah's parents are probably glad she's been taken off their hands, though. They didn't care all that much for her. It's understandable – her mother got an unexpected pregnancy and her father got roped into a marriage, and both of them much too young."
"What makes you think they didn't like her? She was their daughter."
"Walls."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing there. No high school diploma. No baby pictures, no record of her achievements."
"Maybe she didn't achieve much."
"Every parent finds something to gloat about in their children, even if it's nothing."
"That a fact? Your parents gloat over you?" They had to have.
"Hey." A teenage girl was leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed. She wore wide bell-bottom jeans and her long dark hair braided on the side.
John was about to make introductions when Sherlock said, "We need to know about your sister."
"Yeah," Elise sighed. "I figured."
Sherlock watched her while she watched the window. John cleared his throat. "You don't seem too broken up over her death, Elise," he said, carefully.
"It's sad, of course," Elise said. "But only the physical body is gone. "
Sherlock rolled eyes.
"I know I'm innocent, and so does God." Elise shrugged. "That's what matters."
"Oh come on," Sherlock said. "Whoever you're taking the fall for can't be that scary."
"I'm not taking the fall for anybody. Karma takes care of justice, eventually. The sins of others are between them and God."
"You're confused on a lot of pretty fundamental religious concepts, you know."
"I appreciate everything," she said magnanimously. She had that self-assured youthful optimism that came when you were old enough to understand life but not old enough to have experienced much of it, yet. She also had pretty eyes that never quite focused on anything or anyone in this world. For his part, John had liked the place a lot better before he'd gotten experience. "The Hare Krishna movement's caught my eye lately."
"That's interesting," Sherlock said, "considering they don't approve of recreational drugs."
"As I said, I appreciate everything. And sometimes I appreciate a joint here and there."
Sherlock studied her. "Clearly. I'm gonna need you to focus, though. Did your sister have any enemies? Disgruntled ex-boyfriends, maybe?"
"Oh, you have no idea. Hal wasn't too pleased when they broke up last year."
"And where is he now?"
"He didn't do it."
"I'll make that determination for myself, Elise. Where is he?"
"Somewhere horrible, probably. Fighting for nothing. Or who knows, he could be dead too by now."
Impulsively, John just said "I'm sorry," and Elise smiled at him.
"We're getting off track, here," Sherlock said. "Forget about her enemies. What about Hannah's friends?"
"She's a bit of a loner, always in and out and unaccounted for, always playing that guitar of hers – it pisses Daddy off to no end, and Mama too but she won't say anything. There was Jamie, though."
"Tell me about her."
"Well Hannah only hung out with her when she came home on break from college. Hannah wanted to go away from here like Jamie did – she was always making plans to get a job or apply to school or just get in the car and go, but she never did. Jamie's a lot bolder about that stuff."
"How so?"
"Jamie's always doing something, you know? She doesn't sit on her ass and just let life pass her by. She got into WVU, got out of Stanger, and now she's got an internship lined up."
"Where?"
"I dunno. She was Hannah's friend, really, but Hannah was telling me about it and I guess they just need to get the final paperwork through and Jamie's good to go. Listen, did you wanna talk about my sister's murder, or what?"
"I think we've got what we need." Sherlock said. "Isn't that right John?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah." Sherlock was already walking out. John made his (well, Sherlock's) apologies before following Sherlock outside.
He looked back to see Elise smiling beatifically before turning away. Maybe a little sadly.
***
Chapter 9
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
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Download the fanmix
In this chapter: John may have momentarily forgotten that there's a case to be solved, but Sherlock hasn't.
Chapter 8 - Sisters, What Will You Do?
John only managed to haul himself out by carving a foothole in the grave wall – and also with a slight assist from Sherlock's hands on his rear, pushing him up, and taking a gratuitous, non-utilitarian squeeze. That did at least give John the leverage to offer Sherlock a hand from up top, and help to pull him out, which had to mean something.
And that was all the time it took before Sheriff Greg Lestrade and Deputy Sally Donovan came shouting and running through the woods, calling out to announce their presence; John and Sherlock both knew they were in emergency mode and would be coming through with adrenaline blazing, so they established themselves in non-threatening poses.
"What the – " Lestrade cried as he surveyed the scene. "We got called out cause someone saw lights and heard screaming and shots."
Donovan glanced around more freely, drew conclusions, looked at Sherlock, and gasped, "You sick freak!"
"No, Deputy, it's not like that – " John blurted. It's worse. He couldn't help but notice that of course Sherlock had managed to reclaim his coat, which was long and full enough to hide a multitude of sins, and he himself was stuck holding a miner's helmet over his groin in a very unnatural way. He also couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's hair was full of dirt and dead leaves.
Sherlock paced around close to Donovan, the better to dominate her with his height. "I assure you, Sally, a true necrophile would want a much fresher corpse."
"Hell, Sherlock, I came here 'cause we got called," Lestrade said. "Lady on the phone was sure it was devil worshippers."
"I'm still not sure it isn't," said Donovan.
"Obviously not," Sherlock said coldly, ignoring her and switching his attention to Lestrade. "I'm working on a lead that will eventually help me solve the Hartman case. I know that's the one you care about most, since that's the one that's most recent and right in town. You've let so many others go without calling me, but this one hits close to home for you, doesn't it? You need it solved. You need there to be no further killings in your back yard."
John saw anger cross Lestrade's face, but the sheriff breathed deep and held it down. "And for that, you need to . . . dig up random fifty-year-old graves?"
"Not random," Sherlock said. "You should know me better than that by now. And we're not the first ones to dig here this year."
"Sherlock, you can't just go off on your own. You gotta keep me in the loop."
"John's here," Sherlock defended, and John felt all the attention shift to him.
"I'm here," John echoed lamely.
"Listen." Lestrade was not amused. "You're trespassing. I cain't always look the other way whenever a jaunt through someone else's property strikes your fancy."
"You will," Sherlock said. "You need me."
Lestrade shut up, clearly biting his tongue. Then, Sherlock headed back to the grave.
"Whoa, whoa," Lestrade said. "I'm not gonna let you actually continue disturbin' some poor bastard's grave while I'm standin' right here."
"I would like to get the shovels that are still in some poor bastard's grave. As long as it's okay with you of course, Sheriff."
Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face wearily. "Fine, just. Hurry up." He was already walking back to the car.
Donovan took a step forward. "Sheriff?"
"Gotta tell 'em it's a false alarm."
While she was busy looking concerned Sherlock manifested at John's side and breathed, "Distract her," into John's ear before disappearing again.
"You okay?" Donovan said, turning back to him. John was glad his suddenly flushed face was (hopefully) obscured by darkness.
"Yeah. Yeah, definitely." John walked a little ways to the side so Donovan looked away from the grave to focus on him, tried not to fiddle with the helmet he was still holding in front of himself, no thanks to Sherlock's voice in his ear just now. "So, Deputy, you uh, you from around here?"
Donovan looked mildly startled. "Yes and no. My granddaddy came up here to dig coal during one of the strikes, but my mama's family been here as long as the hills have. You?"
"Kind of. We moved to Charleston when I was younger." It was hard not to let his eyes dart to where Sherlock was plunging into the grave a few feet behind her. "What about Sherlock? He . . . well, he doesn't . . ."
"Yeah, I know. He fits in even worse than I do."
John laughed, which sounded nervous as hell. Sherlock was still in the grave – how long was this gonna take anyway?
"We can offer you protection, you know," Donovan said, inclining her head. "From him. Political asylum or somethin'."
"Not gonna start talkin' politics are we?"
"I'm serious. He's unpredictable. Take my advice, John Watson, 'cause I know. No good comes of associating with the likes of him."
"Smearing my name again?" Sherlock called as he walked up to them carrying the shovels and wearing his miner's helmet, smiling a creepily plastic smile. He was somehow even dirtier than before.
Donovan glared. "Got your shovels? Wonderful. Now get on home." She gave John a meaningful look before stalking back to the sheriff's car.
Sherlock waited till the headlights were no longer visible to speak again. What he said was, "Here," and what he did was produce something from his coat and thrust it into John's arms.
"Ugh, this . . . ugh." Dug up bones and dirt. John tried not to think about the fact that he was holding someone's remains. He wondered what else Sherlock had under that coat, then remembered that he actually had a pretty good idea due to recent events, and then he had to go back to thinking about human remains again.
Sherlock started back toward the woods at a brisk pace.
"What are you going to do with these, anyway?" John asked, miraculously not falling flat on his face while racing after him through the brush. "It's not like you have that bone fiddle at . . . you have the bone fiddle at home, don't you?"
"It's fine, Miss Adler's tour's almost over. We reached an agreement."
They walked back to the hearse in silence, although the shovels clanged and the twigs snapped beneath their feet. The trek seemed even longer than it had on the way over.
Everything was stashed in the back of the hearse amid further silence, and while John's hands were full of bones Sherlock leaned close with his grimy face and eyes gleaming in the poor light . . . and plucked a leaf out of John's hair.
"Oh," John said, heart hammering nonetheless. "Thanks?"
Sherlock closed the door. "Let's go," he said tersely.
A few minutes of bumpy roads and sexual tension later, John said, "Sherlock, I think we should probably talk – "
"Shh."
"Sherlock, it's – "
"No." Sherlock gestured vaguely at himself. "Sh."
So John settled for looking out the window. After so long in the dark you started to see the colors in the night sky – watery gray around the edges and bruised dark blue directly above. His eyelids were getting heavier, but the uneven roads kept him awake.
The hearse pulled into Mrs. Hudson's driveway and stopped. John looked without really registering where they were, then turned to Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed. "Your truck's still here?"
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess it is." John climbed out of the passenger seat, lingered there and held the door open. "So, what's our next move? Do you want me to – ?"
"Shut up, I'm thinking," Sherlock said, reached across to yank John's door shut himself before speeding hazardously off into the night.
John stood alone in the driveway, and it took a lazy breeze with a bitter edge to remind him of how cold it was. The hearse had been cozier than he'd realized.
Mrs. Hudson had left the porch light on and the front door unlocked. Just inside by a little night light that said God Bless This Home was John's laundry, folded and smelling like God probably had blessed it. Next to the laundry basket was a pointedly positioned plate of cookies. She was asleep, but John knew he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't take them along too.
Once he was back at the trailer he put his clothes away automatically, then sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair and munched on one of the cookies. It was comfort food, but as soon as he'd finished it it stopped being comforting. He looked around the bland tiny kitchen with its bad lighting.
Only now that he'd stopped moving did John realize how tired he was, mentally as well as physically. But just because he'd stopped and was tired as hell didn't mean he wasn't still stressed as hell, too. His mind wouldn't stop. This was probably how Sherlock felt all the time . . .
He sighed to the empty trailer.
The whatever else that went with Sherlock. John shouldn't dwell on it, really. It was clear that Sherlock wasn't.
John was determined not to think as he sank into the chair and unzipped his jeans and let his fingers trail up his half-hard shaft. Just a little stress relief, that's all.
He tried to focus on the sensation, on simple physical pleasure and the ways he could deny himself just enough for it to build. His mind wandered to random, oddly nonsexual places – the thrill of swimming as a kid, the way you fantasized you were a superhero speeding through the air instead of a kid in a chlorinated pool; the creeping, unlookedfor camaraderie born out of cramming for a test late at night with whoever was in the library; the smell of smoky autumn or the sweet heady height of summer; the breathtaking bend of this chord to that on records your parents listened to late at night. It wasn't that thoughts like these were some kind of turn on, but they were safely, calmly exciting because they flickered with remembered feelings only.
John's hand sped up, but it wasn't quite enough. Of course not. And just like that, any pleasure he was feeling was instantly cheapened by frustration. All he wanted was to feel good for an instant and not think and be able to sleep the whole night through. He loosened the leash on his mind, just a little.
John shouldn't have struggled so much to latch onto a fantasy to get the job done. As was an effort to shuffle through the standby sex symbols, Cheryl Tiegs and Raquel Welch and whoever else was supposed to be an ideal woman, but it wasn't helping. He thought of past girlfriends too, and the ghosts of their touches were more palpable than something all imagined: Sarah and Mary, Birgit and Ute, Mai and Lienh . . . So hot and real at the time, and now? Their memories were fond and sweet and oddly unsubstantial in the wake of something powerful and new. As John jerked himself harder it was like a dam had burst, with every point of friction suddenly good.
He was raw and ragged with want, by now, tugging roughly but the lust that had bubbled up in his chest was dying down again. It still felt good, yeah, but it wasn't enough and God that was frustrating, to be stuck here at almost and this should have been simple, goddammit.
Sherlock probably never has trouble getting off, John thought. He probably has the most efficient masturbatory routine known to man.
Or maybe not. Maybe, once Sherlock got started, he lost that steely control and went weak and wanton.
Like he had underneath John, in the grave. He'd seemed pleased enough with John's technique, what little he'd managed . . . God, Sherlock had been so hard, though, so fucking eager.
But maybe Sherlock touched himself completely differently than John had, when he was alone. Maybe he went torturously slow, and dragged his fingers up and down the length of his cock for ages before bringing himself off.
Maybe sometimes he did that, but other times he was more efficient. Just getting the job done, like John was doing, that's all. Maybe at times like these Sherlock pumped his cock hard and fast from the start, with something to help with the friction like lotion or, oh, saliva. Sherlock spitting in his hand or sucking those lovely long fingers into his mouth before closing them around himself.
John didn't know, he just didn't know because Sherlock hadn't quite gotten around to reciprocating in the grave, although he'd teased John plenty through too many clothes and you know what, just getting to watch Sherlock's eyes unfocusing because of John, just getting to feel him breathing hard with sharp ribs against John's stomach, warm and breathless because of John too, that would've been enough. Sherlock wouldn't even have had to touch John, probably.
Yeah, it would've been enough, but what if Sherlock had touched him? What if he'd got his hand around John's cock or, oh, fuck, his mouth – what if Sherlock had bent in the cramped space and oh, whatever, it was a bed now in his fantasy, a big plush one at the Greenbrier which smelled like cleanliness and comfort.
What if Sherlock had held John's hips down on the expensive mattress and slid John's cock in and out of his mouth, which John had seen slack with surprise or tight with concentration or smirking just a little, but it'd be hot and wet and surrounding John's cock instead, and God, the sight of those lips around him would be too much.
Sherlock would probably know how to make John squirm because he was brilliant and observant, or maybe just by virtue of being a man. He'd know what felt good better than a woman would, right? Had Sherlock been sucked off before? Oh, that image . . . Irene or someone making Sherlock feel as desperate for release as John was now. Sherlock might bite his lip and try not to thrust into her mouth.
John would probably let him, and fuck, John wanted to find out what he would do, find out what made Sherlock moan, how his cock would feel on John's tongue and maybe Sherlock would stare right at him while John was doing it, begging for more or demanding more or just gasping John's name . . .
John came harder than he'd expected, sat bonelessly in the uncomfortable chair for a long time. He staggered off to bed and thought blissfully of nothing. For now, at least.
***
When John woke up the next morning, it was to the redness of morning light seeping through his eyelids, and for those few blessed minutes before he opened them he didn't remember who he was or where he was or anything else. Then, of course, he did remember, and his leg protested as he clambered out of his narrow bed.
He'd woken to the sunlight, which didn't mean sunrise, not up here in the hills. A watch on the dresser read 3 PM and John did a double take. There was no way he'd slept that long, right? God, he must've been more tired than he'd thought. John yawned his way into the kitchen and rummaged for coffee making supplies, pausing to nab one of Mrs. Hudson's cookies.
"Ah, there you are John. The bones were a match."
Fear flooded hotly over John's skin and his hand shot to his gun, which wasn't there, of course, and he dropped a perfectly good cookie in the process. He needn't have worried, though because it was only Sherlock. Or maybe that was even more reason to worry. "Jesus Christ. What the – I – the door was locked!"
Sherlock waved it off. "Theoretically. This place isn't exactly Fort Knox. Anyway, we're going to interview the victim's family. I have the address, and it's only a short drive from here. Well, when I say short . . ."
"Sherlock, I really don't think you're getting the point, here."
"Oh? What's the point?" It looked like he honestly didn't know.
"Just. Never mind." Sherlock was sitting at John's flimsy kitchen table, scarf off and fingers drumming restlessly. How long had he been there? John said, "What do you want?" more bluntly than he'd meant to.
Sherlock didn't notice or didn’t care. He stared out the tiny trailer window while he spoke: "I went to the police station today to let them know the murderer is a local. Only someone who grew up in Stanger would've known about that graveyard. I intercepted Deputy Donovan who advised me that they had already narrowed the suspects themselves. They'd brought Hannah Hartman's sister Elise in for questioning this morning – she's had numerous curfew violations and some other petty charges, some trespassing and disturbances, so it was easy enough to detain her. Not that she protested all that much. Donovan wouldn't let me speak to her, of course, citing some completely irrelevant technicality about my lack of clearances. I did speak with Lestrade afterward, though. Elise, unfortunately, had no real alibi, just some gibberish about being with nature and losing track of time, and apparently when asked point blank whether she was guilty she said, When you put it like that, Sheriff, it certainly makes sense that I would be my sister's killer."
"Oh. So, case closed, just like that?" How anti-climactic.
"Elise isn't the killer. She's a scapegoat like the rest of them, with the added advantage of having half the town convinced she's crazy or at least a radical. In fact I overheard some of Lestrade's finest officers discussing her surely unpredictable, violent tendencies as evidenced by her anti-war rants in the school newspaper. Lestrade doesn't believe all that, of course – he's really not as stupid as he seems – but he'll arrest her anyway just to calm people down. According to him, Maybe the real killer will slip up and be less cautious once we're off his trail, and make it easier to catch him. Lestrade is going with this theory no matter what I say, because Elise as good as confessed and he can't just ignore that. But pinning the crime on someone else has never stopped the killer before. He wouldn't let me talk to her either, so we're going to have to take it from here, John." Sherlock was more gleeful than grim at the prospect.
Oh thank God. "Okay fine, but didn't the cops already do that? Interview her?"
Sherlock laughed. "Also theoretical, as it happens. I need to talk to them, myself."
"Them?"
"Her." Sherlock stood, tying his scarf and drawing John's gaze to the movement of his hands, which were sure and careless and which had been touching John so much so recently.
"Okay," John said, trying not to clench his own hands. "Let me just throw on some – "
"I'll wait."
John felt the weight of Sherlock's eyes as he watched John retreat to his bedroom to dress. When he reemerged in comfy jeans and a shirt that smelled like laundry soap Sherlock's mouth quirked up a little before he led the way outside and seriously, was Sherlock just going to keep doing this? More importantly, how long was John going to keep going along with it?
It wasn't until John was in the hearse again that it occurred to him he'd slept soundly, and without dreaming once.
***
They arrived at the Hartman residence in no time at all. John was silent the whole drive over, and he never even said That's it, this is ludicrous, I don't have to go with you just because you asked, or Just what the hell do you want with me, anyway? He was counting that as a win.
John knew the neighborhood, but his memory of the place was ruled by echoes of childish frustrations, stupid now but epically important at the time. There were plenty of houses, with less distance between them than John remembered. Houses with original siding and tin roofs, sitting away from the road with built-on garages and abandoned projects loitering in the yard, just flickering colored impressions of people's lives through the emptied tree branches.
John got out of the hearse and followed Sherlock along the little path up to the house. It was a warmer day than yesterday, if only because the sun was beating down on them, unchallenged by clouds in the crazy blue of the sky. John found himself relaxing without even trying, and breathed the air in deeply. He was always struck by the easy, familiar smells, here. Farm smells like hay and manure, woods smells like dirt and metallic creek water, the burn of autumn allergens in his lungs.
Sherlock rang the doorbell. There were clean pumpkins and chrysanthemums on the dirty porch.
Mrs. Hartman answered the door, a wonderfully curvy woman with soft yellow hair but a severity to her face, ready with a welcoming smile but it faded a bit when she didn't recognize them. "Can I help you boys?"
"We need to ask you about your daughter's murder," Sherlock said. She didn't budge. "It would probably be easier if you opened the door."
Her eyes narrowed. "Just who do you two think you are, anyway? You with the police or something?"
John jumped in. "Sort of. My name's John Watson, I'm a doctor. This here is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Now, I know you've had a hard time of it lately, ma'am, of course you have, but we just need to do some follow up, here. Try and catch whoever's responsible for Hannah's murder and bring 'em to justice."
They were shown into the living room, which was decorated with nice things that didn't go together. Sherlock claimed the La-Z-Boy for himself, and John found a leftover chair from the dining room set nearby. Sherlock studied John's chair, probably thinking about how it was inherited and what that meant about the people who used it, as though knowing things about people meant you knew them.
"Now then," Mrs. Hartman smiled. "What was it you needed answered? We've already told the police all we know, and they're still no closer to finding my baby's killer. Now, I don't have to tell you this is very tryin' time, for us, and – "
"Is your husband home?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
She favored him with quite a look before pursing her lips and disappearing down the hallway.
John leaned forward in his chair. "Do you really think that was necessary? I think she's probably perfectly capable of answering your questions."
"Oh, she is, definitely. She did all the talking at the station, according to Donovan. I'd like to talk to the rest of the family, now."
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, are you honestly going to accuse grieving parents of murdering their own daughter in their home?"
"Of course not, John. She wasn't murdered here."
"Good evenin', gentleman." Mr. Hartman at the door. He had a hospitable enough smile but he was clearly irritated, and he hadn't even talked to Sherlock yet. He looked like the sort of jolly-yet-rugged man who patted you on the back while calling your mother a whore. His wife hovered behind him, broadcasting her irritation a little more clearly.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, not shaking his proffered hand. "Hello. Why did you wait to report your daughter missing, Mr. Hartman?"
Most parents would be indignant at the implication, John would've thought, but Mr. Hartman just laughed and said, "Why, we had no idea she was missin'. Hannah was always out and about, traipsing through the woods, off in her own little world. That was our Hannah . . . We didn't even think nothin' of it, her bein' gone so long."
"No, of course not," Sherlock sighed. "It's not like there's been a murderer on the loose for the past year or so . . ."
Mr. Hartman frowned. "Now, look here – "
"Sir," John placated, "we're just wanting to know if it was usual, her bein' gone for days at a time."
"Why yes, yes it was," Mr. Hartman said, wounded. "My darling girl, she had such spirit – "
"Which isn't at all relevant, here," Sherlock cut in. "What about your other daughter? Where is she? I'll need to talk to her, too."
Mr. Hartman snorted. "You're certainly welcome to try. Not sure what good that'd do, though. She's dug herself into quite a hole and don't give a damn about gettin' out of it."
Mrs. Hartman stepped out from behind her husband. "Elise means well." She sounded like she was still convincing herself of it. "She does. But she just won't listen to reason."
Sherlock made a face that didn't bode well, so John spoke up: "What do you mean, ma'am?"
"The way she talks . . . Well, she's just not practical. She doesn't care a lick about being thrown in jail."
"That's for sure," Mr. Hartman said. "How many times has she been arrested in the last year? She tied herself to a damn tree for God's sake – "
"Oh, just let me talk to her," Sherlock snapped. "We're wasting time."
Mr. Hartman glared at him. "Like I said, you're welcome to try. But she won't talk to you. And on the off chance she does, don’t count on her makin' no sense." An intake of breath and it seemed like he had more to say, but he shut himself up and left instead. A minute later the back door slammed.
"I'll get her," Mrs. Hartman said, putting on a smile, then climbed the stairs to fetch her remaining daughter.
"Okay," John said, once they were alone. "Just what did you expect to get out of all that, Sherlock? Does it help to be an ass?"
"Sometimes."
John waited for the punchline, but there wasn't one. "They do have a point, you know. She won't give us much if she's not, you know, all there."
"It's not the source of the data that matters, but the correct interpretation of it. And anyway people who aren't 'all there' are infinitely more engaging than those who are."
John watched Sherlock pick up a doily from the coffee table, frown at it and sniff it and replace it in irritation, and had to agree.
Idly, and like it wasn't horrible, Sherlock said, "Hannah's parents are probably glad she's been taken off their hands, though. They didn't care all that much for her. It's understandable – her mother got an unexpected pregnancy and her father got roped into a marriage, and both of them much too young."
"What makes you think they didn't like her? She was their daughter."
"Walls."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing there. No high school diploma. No baby pictures, no record of her achievements."
"Maybe she didn't achieve much."
"Every parent finds something to gloat about in their children, even if it's nothing."
"That a fact? Your parents gloat over you?" They had to have.
"Hey." A teenage girl was leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed. She wore wide bell-bottom jeans and her long dark hair braided on the side.
John was about to make introductions when Sherlock said, "We need to know about your sister."
"Yeah," Elise sighed. "I figured."
Sherlock watched her while she watched the window. John cleared his throat. "You don't seem too broken up over her death, Elise," he said, carefully.
"It's sad, of course," Elise said. "But only the physical body is gone. "
Sherlock rolled eyes.
"I know I'm innocent, and so does God." Elise shrugged. "That's what matters."
"Oh come on," Sherlock said. "Whoever you're taking the fall for can't be that scary."
"I'm not taking the fall for anybody. Karma takes care of justice, eventually. The sins of others are between them and God."
"You're confused on a lot of pretty fundamental religious concepts, you know."
"I appreciate everything," she said magnanimously. She had that self-assured youthful optimism that came when you were old enough to understand life but not old enough to have experienced much of it, yet. She also had pretty eyes that never quite focused on anything or anyone in this world. For his part, John had liked the place a lot better before he'd gotten experience. "The Hare Krishna movement's caught my eye lately."
"That's interesting," Sherlock said, "considering they don't approve of recreational drugs."
"As I said, I appreciate everything. And sometimes I appreciate a joint here and there."
Sherlock studied her. "Clearly. I'm gonna need you to focus, though. Did your sister have any enemies? Disgruntled ex-boyfriends, maybe?"
"Oh, you have no idea. Hal wasn't too pleased when they broke up last year."
"And where is he now?"
"He didn't do it."
"I'll make that determination for myself, Elise. Where is he?"
"Somewhere horrible, probably. Fighting for nothing. Or who knows, he could be dead too by now."
Impulsively, John just said "I'm sorry," and Elise smiled at him.
"We're getting off track, here," Sherlock said. "Forget about her enemies. What about Hannah's friends?"
"She's a bit of a loner, always in and out and unaccounted for, always playing that guitar of hers – it pisses Daddy off to no end, and Mama too but she won't say anything. There was Jamie, though."
"Tell me about her."
"Well Hannah only hung out with her when she came home on break from college. Hannah wanted to go away from here like Jamie did – she was always making plans to get a job or apply to school or just get in the car and go, but she never did. Jamie's a lot bolder about that stuff."
"How so?"
"Jamie's always doing something, you know? She doesn't sit on her ass and just let life pass her by. She got into WVU, got out of Stanger, and now she's got an internship lined up."
"Where?"
"I dunno. She was Hannah's friend, really, but Hannah was telling me about it and I guess they just need to get the final paperwork through and Jamie's good to go. Listen, did you wanna talk about my sister's murder, or what?"
"I think we've got what we need." Sherlock said. "Isn't that right John?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah." Sherlock was already walking out. John made his (well, Sherlock's) apologies before following Sherlock outside.
He looked back to see Elise smiling beatifically before turning away. Maybe a little sadly.
***
Chapter 9
