The Bone Fiddle, Chapter 13/13 (Epilogue)
Dec. 16th, 2012 06:31 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
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Download the fanmix
In this chapter: And they lived hillbilly ever after! John makes up his mind, and Sherlock and Lestrade show off some teamwork.
Epilogue
Thanksgiving hadn't begun all that promisingly for John, for all that he'd woken up in Sherlock's bed again (only mildly frustrated after His Geniusness had succumbed to post-case crash the night before, openmouthed on John's chest with his hand between John's legs, dead to the world). First off, the Royal Presence had stormed back into the house covered in hay, trailing horse manure on his right shoe, and muttering something about a glue factory, leaving John to deduce that he'd probably been nearly kicked through the fence.
Second, Sherlock hadn't taken well to his attempts to leave again. "But we have to go to dinner at Mrs. Hudson's."
"We will, but do we have to show up together?"
"Why not?"
"Because . . . " John said, flailing a bit. "Because she's really nosy. And pretty smart. Not like you, but she can put two and two together . . . "
"Oh," Sherlock said with his best you-poor-idiot sigh. "Ridiculous paranoia. You think that if we arrive together, she'll immediately assume we have a sexual relationship."
"Well, we do!" John shouted, and then realized what he'd just said. Of course yes, the sexual part was just a plain old fact, but a relationship? Well. Of course they did. All sorts of people with all sorts of connections have relationships, but . . . Not a good line of thought right now. Very untimely.
"Yes, and it's making you self-conscious. You think there's a neon sign over our heads now. Therefore, you'll try to distance yourself, and you'll go overboard, and that will make it even more obvious to the discerning eye."
"That's . . . not helpful. Not helpful at all."
"I wasn't trying to be helpful," Sherlock said. "I'm pointing out what should be clear even to you. If Mrs. Hudson is the reason you're worried about living with me, that's irrational even by your standards."
"Has it occurred to you at all that there might be a whole lot of reasons?"
"None that stand up to intelligent scrutiny. You really should learn to leave that to me."
"Here's one: you're an arrogant, insulting nasty piece of work." John held up his index finger warningly. "Don't talk. Don't say another word. I'll see you at dinner. Behave, or . . . "
"Or what?"
"Or I'll . . . never give you a blowjob again."
Nothing contributes to a tense moment like an obviously completely empty threat. John threw up his hands and walked out of Sherlock's house without pausing for the derisive smirk.
John even started to feel a twinge in his leg as he started down the steep road that was slightly slick with a dusting of wet snow. Fog shrouded the highest points of the ridge above and was starting to creep down into the valley. Still, by the time he passed Mrs. Hudson's house, there was something about its native cheer that started to dissolve the cloud of John's mood.
He looked at his own trailer with something that was no longer complete hatred. Gradually, he realized that was because it wasn't his prison anymore. He would put up a fight, he'd raise some more arguments, he'd resist being taken for granted, he'd keep a lot of his things here still, he'd slink down here sometimes to keep up appearances, and maintain the trailer and keep it from melting into the weeds completely, and maybe sometimes to get away from that crazy bastard for a while.
But he was also, eventually, inevitably, going to take everything important back up that hill. John was going to leave this neat, organized, constricted, tiny little place and move into a big house full of unpredictable clutter. He was going to wind up sharing everything with Sherlock Holmes – his house, his work, his bed, and his madness. It wasn't a very safe or sensible choice. But it was the right one. It was the one John wouldn't regret on his deathbed – well, if he were lucky enough to get to die in a bed, anyway.
No reason to make it too easy for Sherlock too soon, though.
It was early afternoon, which meant plenty of time to get to the stores even if they were hellishly crowded and maybe get back in time to catch a little football. Humming to himself, he rummaged around on the kitchen table and found the slip of paper where he'd written Mrs. Hudson's number.
Definitely a good day, because he got through on the first try. "Hello Mrs. Hudson, it's John."
"Oh hello John. You better not be tellin' me you're not coming for supper."
"No, nope, not sayin' that at all. Just wondering what you wanted me to bring."
"Your company and that's all. I don't need a thing."
"I'm not havin' that. What do you want? Do you like wine?"
"I have some, and I'm mullin' it right now."
John sighed. "You need any help with anything?"
"Don't think I do, but you can come on over any time."
"An hour or two?"
"That'd be great."
John wasn't in a mood to take no for an answer, so he went out and got in his truck and drove to the local packette anyway. The crowds weren't too bad, and to his great relief, no conversations stopped dead when he walked in, and he even got a friendly wave or two. The wine he bought was nothing special, but he'd seen a tin of Tuberose snuff on Mrs. Hudson's counter so he picked up one of those too, and, on generous impulse, a pack of the cigarettes he knew Sherlock favored.
Nobody commented. Nobody'd even notice – he was being ridiculous, and he was kind of enjoying that revelation.
He took the slow route back, stopped to pluck what must be the last maple branch in the county that still had pretty leaves, listening to the WVU game on the radio.
He shouldn't be in such a good mood, but he wasn't going to question it too hard.
Still, it didn't stop him from doing a horrified double-take, reeling and blinking, when he knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.
It wasn't she who answered. It was Sherlock, with a butcher's knife in his hand, wearing an apron covered in blood. God, the blood was everywhere – his hands up to the elbows where his sleeves were rolled up, a smear of it across his cheek and nose where he must have wiped his face.
John had seen him spattered with blood before, and he froze for a moment at the memory.
"Oh, there you are, John," came Mrs. Hudson's cheerful call from deep in the kitchen. Sherlock was chuckling at the look on John's face.
"I still think you're creepy," John muttered to him.
"You also think I'm sexy, so what does that say about you?" Sherlock muttered back, smiling.
"Mrs. Turner's boy brought us a fresh haunch of venison," Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock's so very good with knives."
John purposefully turned his back on Sherlock and walked into the kitchen, where he was nearly brought to his knees by the scents of heaven. A roasting wild turkey, with stuffing and gravy. Cornbread and greens and mashed potatoes and formerly-bloody bits of venison cooking with vegetables in a stew pot. Wine mulling with spices on the stovetop, and a pumpkin pie cooling beside it.
"How many people are you expecting?" he asked.
"Oh, I think it might be just us this year," Mrs. Hudson said. "My sister's taken most of her clan to her daughter in Cincinnati."
"That's a lot of food for three people," John gulped. "Not that I'm complainin,' mind you."
"That's food for three people for two weeks," she said. "You boys are goin' home with full stomachs and a whole lotta leftovers." Using the metaphorical eyes in the back of her head, she said, "Sherlock, you ain't touchin' nothin' in here til you go wash up. You look like Jack the Ripper, I swear."
Sherlock gave her no guff at all, but stalked off into her bathroom. At the sound of the sink running, John was absolutely helpless to resist inspiration: would Sherlock like being ambushed in the shower one of these days? He thought of thick dark curls heavy and wet, of streams of hot water running down a long, lean spine, skin slick with soapsuds . . . he remembered that morning at the Greenbrier, when now he knew that he could have yanked off that towel, and then . . .
Oh God. Not now. What was this sorcery of Sherlock's, that brought John's libido back to its seventeen-year-old levels?
"Well, I think it's just about time to set to it, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock emerged, the edges of his hair slightly damp. As she took her turn washing up, Sherlock nudged John over to look at her wall of family photographs.
"See these here?" he asked, his voice low in John's ear. "That's her favorite nephew, Ernest. He's a dancer in an avant-garde ballet troupe, and he lives in Greenwich Village. She's been to visit him twice."
Sure enough, there were quite a few photos of flamboyantly handsome young men, and Mrs. Hudson was in some of them, dressed to the nines and smiling radiantly.
"She was the toast of the town," Sherlock said. "Clearly Ernest is well-connected."
John peered closer at a man standing next to Mrs. Hudson in one of the party photos. "That guy looks a lot like Andy Warhol."
"That's who it is."
"Oh. So she . . . "
"Understands." Sherlock said. "And she knows me well. She called me in when her husband was on Death Row."
"You prevented his execution."
"No, I ensured it."
John's eyes widened.
Sherlock just laughed and leaned in lower. "She's got my back. Though not in the same way you do."
"I'd hope not."
Overall, John thought it was just about the best Thanksgiving dinner he'd ever had. The food was spectacularly satisfying, and even the moment when Mrs. Hudson insisted on joining hands and saying grace wasn't awkward, since Sherlock behaved himself.
The biggest surprise John encountered was the way Sherlock could eat when he was of a mind to. My God, could he put it away. "You got a hollow leg?" John said fondly as Sherlock chased the last smears of gravy around his plate with his third buttermilk biscuit.
"Save room for the pie, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with pride.
"How'd you get him to do that?" John asked.
"It's a matter of timing," Sherlock said with his mouth full.
"Elbows off the table, honey, that turkey ain't gonna run away from you."
Just as they were angling to get just a little more dessert into those last few precious bits of stomach space, Mrs. Hudson's phone rang. "Pardon me," she said as she went to answer it. "I have a hunch."
John could only hear one side of the phone conversation, of course, but it being Mrs. Hudson, that might well be enough.
"Oh goodness yes, do come over, we'd love to have you!"
Pause. She mouthed his name at the other guests. Lestrade.
"I am so sorry to hear that. I know it's been a rough time. You deserve better, if you ask me. And I know you didn't ask, but I'm gonna keep tellin' you anyway."
Pause.
"Oh, yes, please bring Betsy. Sherlock's brought his little friend as well."
"Hey!" John blurted indignantly and was treated to two indulgent smiles. John thought it was highly inappropriate, especially from Sherlock.
But when Lestrade arrived, all came clear. He wasn't a different man out of uniform, not exactly, but if he'd had any lingering animosity over Sherlock's insults, it all seemed to be gone now. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, I do appreciate your hospitality."
"You need a little refuge."
Lestrade nodded. "Got some stuff out in the car, I'll be right back."
Sherlock leaned over to whisper in John's ear. "His marriage is on the rocks – wife is cheating, everyone knows it. He had to spend Thanksgiving dinner there as a formality and for the sake of the children, but it couldn't have been pleasant."
John looked at the door sadly and bolted up to help, following the sheriff out. "Your leg's lookin' a lot better, John," Lestrade said at the car.
"Hardly feel it at all now."
"I guess the excitement's good for you. Look, I gotta tell you somethin'. I've seen Sherlock smile more in the past week than in the whole last year."
John blinked and turned away to pick up a tray of leftovers. "Well, it was a good case. I know he likes serial killers."
"Yeah, maybe that's it," Lestrade said doubtfully, picking up the rest of the stuff, bringing in a large, heavy box and actually trusting John with his baby in her solid, well-made case. Because Betsy turned out to be not a woman, but a banjo; Sherlock greeted her by name.
John poked him and whispered. "You can't ever remember Lestrade's first name, but you know the name of his banjo?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Priorities."
And of course by Sherlock's "little friend," Mrs. Hudson had meant his fiddle.
Lestrade unpacked his heavy crate, and three faces looked at him in various levels of shock (John) and amusement (Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock).
"I cain't help it," Lestrade sighed as the unpacked the Mason jars and glass jugs full of a clear liquid that still managed to look dangerous despite its superficial resemblance to water. "It's the only thing that my brothers ever bring to dinner. All three of them. Every year – and they damn well know I can't keep it in the house."
"Well, I do appreciate it," Mrs. Hudson says. "You know I use a lot of it in my herbal tinctures."
Lestrade presented a glass jug to John. "Welcome home, sir. I reckon you mighta missed the taste of this over there. Though I figure every country on earth has some kind of their own, don't they?"
"Well, I can't say I missed the taste exactly."
"I'm not supposed to say this, but my brothers are good at it."
It was with a little trepidation that Lestrade set a jug down on the end table beside Sherlock. "Here we go. Fiddler's dram. But you gotta promise me – you're not gonna use it to set fires, or blow anything up, or mix any acids or poisons in it, or put it in any engines."
Sherlock looked at it dubiously. "What am I supposed to do with it, then?"
"I suggest you drink it, you big fool. Might loosen you up some."
"Well," Sherlock said. "I've been told recently that I am very tight, so . . . "
JESUS, John thought and almost dropped his mug of hot cider before he remembered it was Mrs. Hudson's cup and he couldn't shatter it.
Lestrade looked like a penny might have dropped in his head, but he chose to catch it before it landed. Fortunately, tuning a banjo is a fussy and distracting bit of stage business, especially when a fiddler is giving you a cool, cat-eyed smirk and rosining up his bow with an unnecessarily suggestive motion. "It's always the graveyard tunin' with you, ain't it?"
"GDAE is tedious."
"Y'all just can't stand to have a banjo player have it easy."
"I'm so happy we're going to have a little music," Mrs. Hudson said. "I could put on the radio, but it's not the same as having you boys right here playin' it for us. John, do you play anything?"
"Clarinet in the marching band," John said sheepishly, sure that his face was still an appalling shade of red. "A little guitar, but I was never any good. I do like to dance, though."
"Well, that's a good thing," she said. "Because I've had my little herbal medicine and my hip's as good right now as it ever is."
"Is that a challenge, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.
"You bet your bottom dollar it is."
Lestrade grinned. "You know 'Orange Blossom Special,' city slicker?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and with a long draw of the bow, made a scarily accurate train whistle noise. "The game is on, Sheriff."
And then they were both on it at breakneck speed and pinpoint accuracy. John noticed just a couple of things in that moment: that Lestrade was really good; that Sherlock had the sound of a classically-trained violinist who was really enjoying the droning grit and the driving rhythm of the mountain style, and sounding more natural in it by the moment; and that Mrs. Hudson had probably been the star of the dance floor when she was young, because she was a challenge for John to keep up with now. He could manage it, though, he really could. Their stomping feet matched the rhythm of the strings just right.
In between songs, John helped himself to a burning swig of Lestrade's brothers' contribution. Hot damn, was it strong. He tried to keep his eyes from popping and his forehead from sweating and mostly succeeded, but he couldn't quite stop himself from cackling at Sherlock's expression when he tried some too.
"Yeah, drink some more o' that," Lestrade said, toasting Sherlock. "You still need to get a little more hillbilly in you."
Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't need to say anything. His snicker said it for him – right to John, who managed to get out of Mrs. Hudson's face barely in the nick of time for his spit-take. Eventually, Sherlock drawled, "Ah s'pose you're right," with just a hint of the Appalachian twang he didn't really have. He took one more sip and didn't seem to react at to the burn at all.
"Fire On the Mountain," Lestrade called.
God, Mrs. Hudson was tireless, and she looked so girlishly happy. Even if John really had been shot in the leg – even if it had just happened an hour ago – he'd dance through all kinds of pain just to keep this going.
"Cacklin' Hen," Sherlock said.
One of those dance tunes that was sexier than its name sounded. At least when he and Lestrade paused to roll up sleeves, daub at sweat, and give each other competitive glares before plunging back into their seamless high-speed duet.
"Soldier's Joy." Was that choice a coincidence? John couldn't bring himself to care.
"Stay All Night." Probably not.
"Oh, honey," Mrs. Hudson gasped as she swung with John in a quick circle with their elbows linked, their feet still keeping up the hoedown beat. "I think this might be my last fast number for a while, I'm startin' to feel it."
"Quite all right, ma'am," John said, bowing to her as the song ended.
"Somethin' a little slower then," Lestrade said. "'Wildwood Flower'?"
"Rendered banal by overuse, but it still serves its purpose," Sherlock said by way of agreement. And he put a surprisingly sweet sway and sadness into the tune, wind singing through pines, grass tugging at legs, a bittersweet sort of tug and chime to his tone.
And as John danced a careful little two-step with his hand on Mrs. Hudson's waist, he was moving slowly enough to watch Sherlock over her shoulder; Sherlock was swaying a little to his own playing. John watched the mesmerizing sweep of the bow that was an extension of Sherlock's graceful arm, and looked at his hair overshadowing his eyes, the way the clamp of his chin held the fiddle against his shoulder, and his long fingers moving so delicate and smooth on the fiddle's tiny neck, and John couldn't help but think that in a couple hours, those hands might be playing him with the same sensuous precision . . .
And then he had to start thinking of mangled corpses again, because the idea of getting a hard-on while slow dancing with Mrs. Hudson was something that could make even a hardened survivor with a lot to live for again think about eating a bullet.
It was late into the night when the combined effects of food and drink and sleepiness finally set in deep enough that it was time to break up the party. Even Sherlock looked relaxed and drowsy, and Mrs. Hudson was wobbling just a bit as she packed up trays of leftovers to go home, and John was moving awfully slowly as he helped her wash dishes.
"You've got a lot to carry, Sherlock," John said. "I got my truck here, you want a ride home?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock said, looking up through his eyelashes. "I'd love a ride."
Dammit, John thought. He got me again.
Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade waved as the truck backed out of the driveway and went up the hill. She nudged the sheriff gently. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson – quite a pair, aren't they?"
"Honeydripper and Porcupine," Lestrade chuckled. Then he turned to Mrs. Hudson, brow furrowed. "Do you think there's any chance John's drivin' back down that hill tonight? He seemed a little tipsy."
"Oh goodness no, honey, how could you miss that?"
Lestrade sighed. "I didn't miss it. I was just tryin' to mind my own business."
"And then you asked me," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.
"It's not like I care. As they say, as long as they don't frighten the horses."
As if on cue, from far up the hill, Arthur whinnied plaintively.
***
THE END
And this story is now COMPLETE (well, to be honest, it was complete before we started posting. We just did it serially to prolong the fun). Huge, huge thanks to all our readers and commenters! It's a bittersweet moment to be sure, but we're brainstorming a sequel, so this may not be the endend.
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
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Download the fanmix
In this chapter: And they lived hillbilly ever after! John makes up his mind, and Sherlock and Lestrade show off some teamwork.
Epilogue
Thanksgiving hadn't begun all that promisingly for John, for all that he'd woken up in Sherlock's bed again (only mildly frustrated after His Geniusness had succumbed to post-case crash the night before, openmouthed on John's chest with his hand between John's legs, dead to the world). First off, the Royal Presence had stormed back into the house covered in hay, trailing horse manure on his right shoe, and muttering something about a glue factory, leaving John to deduce that he'd probably been nearly kicked through the fence.
Second, Sherlock hadn't taken well to his attempts to leave again. "But we have to go to dinner at Mrs. Hudson's."
"We will, but do we have to show up together?"
"Why not?"
"Because . . . " John said, flailing a bit. "Because she's really nosy. And pretty smart. Not like you, but she can put two and two together . . . "
"Oh," Sherlock said with his best you-poor-idiot sigh. "Ridiculous paranoia. You think that if we arrive together, she'll immediately assume we have a sexual relationship."
"Well, we do!" John shouted, and then realized what he'd just said. Of course yes, the sexual part was just a plain old fact, but a relationship? Well. Of course they did. All sorts of people with all sorts of connections have relationships, but . . . Not a good line of thought right now. Very untimely.
"Yes, and it's making you self-conscious. You think there's a neon sign over our heads now. Therefore, you'll try to distance yourself, and you'll go overboard, and that will make it even more obvious to the discerning eye."
"That's . . . not helpful. Not helpful at all."
"I wasn't trying to be helpful," Sherlock said. "I'm pointing out what should be clear even to you. If Mrs. Hudson is the reason you're worried about living with me, that's irrational even by your standards."
"Has it occurred to you at all that there might be a whole lot of reasons?"
"None that stand up to intelligent scrutiny. You really should learn to leave that to me."
"Here's one: you're an arrogant, insulting nasty piece of work." John held up his index finger warningly. "Don't talk. Don't say another word. I'll see you at dinner. Behave, or . . . "
"Or what?"
"Or I'll . . . never give you a blowjob again."
Nothing contributes to a tense moment like an obviously completely empty threat. John threw up his hands and walked out of Sherlock's house without pausing for the derisive smirk.
John even started to feel a twinge in his leg as he started down the steep road that was slightly slick with a dusting of wet snow. Fog shrouded the highest points of the ridge above and was starting to creep down into the valley. Still, by the time he passed Mrs. Hudson's house, there was something about its native cheer that started to dissolve the cloud of John's mood.
He looked at his own trailer with something that was no longer complete hatred. Gradually, he realized that was because it wasn't his prison anymore. He would put up a fight, he'd raise some more arguments, he'd resist being taken for granted, he'd keep a lot of his things here still, he'd slink down here sometimes to keep up appearances, and maintain the trailer and keep it from melting into the weeds completely, and maybe sometimes to get away from that crazy bastard for a while.
But he was also, eventually, inevitably, going to take everything important back up that hill. John was going to leave this neat, organized, constricted, tiny little place and move into a big house full of unpredictable clutter. He was going to wind up sharing everything with Sherlock Holmes – his house, his work, his bed, and his madness. It wasn't a very safe or sensible choice. But it was the right one. It was the one John wouldn't regret on his deathbed – well, if he were lucky enough to get to die in a bed, anyway.
No reason to make it too easy for Sherlock too soon, though.
It was early afternoon, which meant plenty of time to get to the stores even if they were hellishly crowded and maybe get back in time to catch a little football. Humming to himself, he rummaged around on the kitchen table and found the slip of paper where he'd written Mrs. Hudson's number.
Definitely a good day, because he got through on the first try. "Hello Mrs. Hudson, it's John."
"Oh hello John. You better not be tellin' me you're not coming for supper."
"No, nope, not sayin' that at all. Just wondering what you wanted me to bring."
"Your company and that's all. I don't need a thing."
"I'm not havin' that. What do you want? Do you like wine?"
"I have some, and I'm mullin' it right now."
John sighed. "You need any help with anything?"
"Don't think I do, but you can come on over any time."
"An hour or two?"
"That'd be great."
John wasn't in a mood to take no for an answer, so he went out and got in his truck and drove to the local packette anyway. The crowds weren't too bad, and to his great relief, no conversations stopped dead when he walked in, and he even got a friendly wave or two. The wine he bought was nothing special, but he'd seen a tin of Tuberose snuff on Mrs. Hudson's counter so he picked up one of those too, and, on generous impulse, a pack of the cigarettes he knew Sherlock favored.
Nobody commented. Nobody'd even notice – he was being ridiculous, and he was kind of enjoying that revelation.
He took the slow route back, stopped to pluck what must be the last maple branch in the county that still had pretty leaves, listening to the WVU game on the radio.
He shouldn't be in such a good mood, but he wasn't going to question it too hard.
Still, it didn't stop him from doing a horrified double-take, reeling and blinking, when he knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.
It wasn't she who answered. It was Sherlock, with a butcher's knife in his hand, wearing an apron covered in blood. God, the blood was everywhere – his hands up to the elbows where his sleeves were rolled up, a smear of it across his cheek and nose where he must have wiped his face.
John had seen him spattered with blood before, and he froze for a moment at the memory.
"Oh, there you are, John," came Mrs. Hudson's cheerful call from deep in the kitchen. Sherlock was chuckling at the look on John's face.
"I still think you're creepy," John muttered to him.
"You also think I'm sexy, so what does that say about you?" Sherlock muttered back, smiling.
"Mrs. Turner's boy brought us a fresh haunch of venison," Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock's so very good with knives."
John purposefully turned his back on Sherlock and walked into the kitchen, where he was nearly brought to his knees by the scents of heaven. A roasting wild turkey, with stuffing and gravy. Cornbread and greens and mashed potatoes and formerly-bloody bits of venison cooking with vegetables in a stew pot. Wine mulling with spices on the stovetop, and a pumpkin pie cooling beside it.
"How many people are you expecting?" he asked.
"Oh, I think it might be just us this year," Mrs. Hudson said. "My sister's taken most of her clan to her daughter in Cincinnati."
"That's a lot of food for three people," John gulped. "Not that I'm complainin,' mind you."
"That's food for three people for two weeks," she said. "You boys are goin' home with full stomachs and a whole lotta leftovers." Using the metaphorical eyes in the back of her head, she said, "Sherlock, you ain't touchin' nothin' in here til you go wash up. You look like Jack the Ripper, I swear."
Sherlock gave her no guff at all, but stalked off into her bathroom. At the sound of the sink running, John was absolutely helpless to resist inspiration: would Sherlock like being ambushed in the shower one of these days? He thought of thick dark curls heavy and wet, of streams of hot water running down a long, lean spine, skin slick with soapsuds . . . he remembered that morning at the Greenbrier, when now he knew that he could have yanked off that towel, and then . . .
Oh God. Not now. What was this sorcery of Sherlock's, that brought John's libido back to its seventeen-year-old levels?
"Well, I think it's just about time to set to it, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock emerged, the edges of his hair slightly damp. As she took her turn washing up, Sherlock nudged John over to look at her wall of family photographs.
"See these here?" he asked, his voice low in John's ear. "That's her favorite nephew, Ernest. He's a dancer in an avant-garde ballet troupe, and he lives in Greenwich Village. She's been to visit him twice."
Sure enough, there were quite a few photos of flamboyantly handsome young men, and Mrs. Hudson was in some of them, dressed to the nines and smiling radiantly.
"She was the toast of the town," Sherlock said. "Clearly Ernest is well-connected."
John peered closer at a man standing next to Mrs. Hudson in one of the party photos. "That guy looks a lot like Andy Warhol."
"That's who it is."
"Oh. So she . . . "
"Understands." Sherlock said. "And she knows me well. She called me in when her husband was on Death Row."
"You prevented his execution."
"No, I ensured it."
John's eyes widened.
Sherlock just laughed and leaned in lower. "She's got my back. Though not in the same way you do."
"I'd hope not."
Overall, John thought it was just about the best Thanksgiving dinner he'd ever had. The food was spectacularly satisfying, and even the moment when Mrs. Hudson insisted on joining hands and saying grace wasn't awkward, since Sherlock behaved himself.
The biggest surprise John encountered was the way Sherlock could eat when he was of a mind to. My God, could he put it away. "You got a hollow leg?" John said fondly as Sherlock chased the last smears of gravy around his plate with his third buttermilk biscuit.
"Save room for the pie, dear," Mrs. Hudson said with pride.
"How'd you get him to do that?" John asked.
"It's a matter of timing," Sherlock said with his mouth full.
"Elbows off the table, honey, that turkey ain't gonna run away from you."
Just as they were angling to get just a little more dessert into those last few precious bits of stomach space, Mrs. Hudson's phone rang. "Pardon me," she said as she went to answer it. "I have a hunch."
John could only hear one side of the phone conversation, of course, but it being Mrs. Hudson, that might well be enough.
"Oh goodness yes, do come over, we'd love to have you!"
Pause. She mouthed his name at the other guests. Lestrade.
"I am so sorry to hear that. I know it's been a rough time. You deserve better, if you ask me. And I know you didn't ask, but I'm gonna keep tellin' you anyway."
Pause.
"Oh, yes, please bring Betsy. Sherlock's brought his little friend as well."
"Hey!" John blurted indignantly and was treated to two indulgent smiles. John thought it was highly inappropriate, especially from Sherlock.
But when Lestrade arrived, all came clear. He wasn't a different man out of uniform, not exactly, but if he'd had any lingering animosity over Sherlock's insults, it all seemed to be gone now. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, I do appreciate your hospitality."
"You need a little refuge."
Lestrade nodded. "Got some stuff out in the car, I'll be right back."
Sherlock leaned over to whisper in John's ear. "His marriage is on the rocks – wife is cheating, everyone knows it. He had to spend Thanksgiving dinner there as a formality and for the sake of the children, but it couldn't have been pleasant."
John looked at the door sadly and bolted up to help, following the sheriff out. "Your leg's lookin' a lot better, John," Lestrade said at the car.
"Hardly feel it at all now."
"I guess the excitement's good for you. Look, I gotta tell you somethin'. I've seen Sherlock smile more in the past week than in the whole last year."
John blinked and turned away to pick up a tray of leftovers. "Well, it was a good case. I know he likes serial killers."
"Yeah, maybe that's it," Lestrade said doubtfully, picking up the rest of the stuff, bringing in a large, heavy box and actually trusting John with his baby in her solid, well-made case. Because Betsy turned out to be not a woman, but a banjo; Sherlock greeted her by name.
John poked him and whispered. "You can't ever remember Lestrade's first name, but you know the name of his banjo?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Priorities."
And of course by Sherlock's "little friend," Mrs. Hudson had meant his fiddle.
Lestrade unpacked his heavy crate, and three faces looked at him in various levels of shock (John) and amusement (Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock).
"I cain't help it," Lestrade sighed as the unpacked the Mason jars and glass jugs full of a clear liquid that still managed to look dangerous despite its superficial resemblance to water. "It's the only thing that my brothers ever bring to dinner. All three of them. Every year – and they damn well know I can't keep it in the house."
"Well, I do appreciate it," Mrs. Hudson says. "You know I use a lot of it in my herbal tinctures."
Lestrade presented a glass jug to John. "Welcome home, sir. I reckon you mighta missed the taste of this over there. Though I figure every country on earth has some kind of their own, don't they?"
"Well, I can't say I missed the taste exactly."
"I'm not supposed to say this, but my brothers are good at it."
It was with a little trepidation that Lestrade set a jug down on the end table beside Sherlock. "Here we go. Fiddler's dram. But you gotta promise me – you're not gonna use it to set fires, or blow anything up, or mix any acids or poisons in it, or put it in any engines."
Sherlock looked at it dubiously. "What am I supposed to do with it, then?"
"I suggest you drink it, you big fool. Might loosen you up some."
"Well," Sherlock said. "I've been told recently that I am very tight, so . . . "
JESUS, John thought and almost dropped his mug of hot cider before he remembered it was Mrs. Hudson's cup and he couldn't shatter it.
Lestrade looked like a penny might have dropped in his head, but he chose to catch it before it landed. Fortunately, tuning a banjo is a fussy and distracting bit of stage business, especially when a fiddler is giving you a cool, cat-eyed smirk and rosining up his bow with an unnecessarily suggestive motion. "It's always the graveyard tunin' with you, ain't it?"
"GDAE is tedious."
"Y'all just can't stand to have a banjo player have it easy."
"I'm so happy we're going to have a little music," Mrs. Hudson said. "I could put on the radio, but it's not the same as having you boys right here playin' it for us. John, do you play anything?"
"Clarinet in the marching band," John said sheepishly, sure that his face was still an appalling shade of red. "A little guitar, but I was never any good. I do like to dance, though."
"Well, that's a good thing," she said. "Because I've had my little herbal medicine and my hip's as good right now as it ever is."
"Is that a challenge, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked.
"You bet your bottom dollar it is."
Lestrade grinned. "You know 'Orange Blossom Special,' city slicker?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and with a long draw of the bow, made a scarily accurate train whistle noise. "The game is on, Sheriff."
And then they were both on it at breakneck speed and pinpoint accuracy. John noticed just a couple of things in that moment: that Lestrade was really good; that Sherlock had the sound of a classically-trained violinist who was really enjoying the droning grit and the driving rhythm of the mountain style, and sounding more natural in it by the moment; and that Mrs. Hudson had probably been the star of the dance floor when she was young, because she was a challenge for John to keep up with now. He could manage it, though, he really could. Their stomping feet matched the rhythm of the strings just right.
In between songs, John helped himself to a burning swig of Lestrade's brothers' contribution. Hot damn, was it strong. He tried to keep his eyes from popping and his forehead from sweating and mostly succeeded, but he couldn't quite stop himself from cackling at Sherlock's expression when he tried some too.
"Yeah, drink some more o' that," Lestrade said, toasting Sherlock. "You still need to get a little more hillbilly in you."
Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't need to say anything. His snicker said it for him – right to John, who managed to get out of Mrs. Hudson's face barely in the nick of time for his spit-take. Eventually, Sherlock drawled, "Ah s'pose you're right," with just a hint of the Appalachian twang he didn't really have. He took one more sip and didn't seem to react at to the burn at all.
"Fire On the Mountain," Lestrade called.
God, Mrs. Hudson was tireless, and she looked so girlishly happy. Even if John really had been shot in the leg – even if it had just happened an hour ago – he'd dance through all kinds of pain just to keep this going.
"Cacklin' Hen," Sherlock said.
One of those dance tunes that was sexier than its name sounded. At least when he and Lestrade paused to roll up sleeves, daub at sweat, and give each other competitive glares before plunging back into their seamless high-speed duet.
"Soldier's Joy." Was that choice a coincidence? John couldn't bring himself to care.
"Stay All Night." Probably not.
"Oh, honey," Mrs. Hudson gasped as she swung with John in a quick circle with their elbows linked, their feet still keeping up the hoedown beat. "I think this might be my last fast number for a while, I'm startin' to feel it."
"Quite all right, ma'am," John said, bowing to her as the song ended.
"Somethin' a little slower then," Lestrade said. "'Wildwood Flower'?"
"Rendered banal by overuse, but it still serves its purpose," Sherlock said by way of agreement. And he put a surprisingly sweet sway and sadness into the tune, wind singing through pines, grass tugging at legs, a bittersweet sort of tug and chime to his tone.
And as John danced a careful little two-step with his hand on Mrs. Hudson's waist, he was moving slowly enough to watch Sherlock over her shoulder; Sherlock was swaying a little to his own playing. John watched the mesmerizing sweep of the bow that was an extension of Sherlock's graceful arm, and looked at his hair overshadowing his eyes, the way the clamp of his chin held the fiddle against his shoulder, and his long fingers moving so delicate and smooth on the fiddle's tiny neck, and John couldn't help but think that in a couple hours, those hands might be playing him with the same sensuous precision . . .
And then he had to start thinking of mangled corpses again, because the idea of getting a hard-on while slow dancing with Mrs. Hudson was something that could make even a hardened survivor with a lot to live for again think about eating a bullet.
It was late into the night when the combined effects of food and drink and sleepiness finally set in deep enough that it was time to break up the party. Even Sherlock looked relaxed and drowsy, and Mrs. Hudson was wobbling just a bit as she packed up trays of leftovers to go home, and John was moving awfully slowly as he helped her wash dishes.
"You've got a lot to carry, Sherlock," John said. "I got my truck here, you want a ride home?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock said, looking up through his eyelashes. "I'd love a ride."
Dammit, John thought. He got me again.
Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade waved as the truck backed out of the driveway and went up the hill. She nudged the sheriff gently. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson – quite a pair, aren't they?"
"Honeydripper and Porcupine," Lestrade chuckled. Then he turned to Mrs. Hudson, brow furrowed. "Do you think there's any chance John's drivin' back down that hill tonight? He seemed a little tipsy."
"Oh goodness no, honey, how could you miss that?"
Lestrade sighed. "I didn't miss it. I was just tryin' to mind my own business."
"And then you asked me," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling.
"It's not like I care. As they say, as long as they don't frighten the horses."
As if on cue, from far up the hill, Arthur whinnied plaintively.
***
THE END
And this story is now COMPLETE (well, to be honest, it was complete before we started posting. We just did it serially to prolong the fun). Huge, huge thanks to all our readers and commenters! It's a bittersweet moment to be sure, but we're brainstorming a sequel, so this may not be the endend.
