Fic: The Body Farm Part Four
Title: The Body Farm
Story Type: Fanfiction
Genre(s): Friendship, Action/Adventure, Angst, Humour, Culture Shock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, slight John/OFC
Rating: PG-13/R (corpses)
Spoilers: Nothing overt, but best to have seen S1
Warnings: Graphic depictions of decomposed human remains, dodgy psychology
Summary: Sherlock's morbid obsessions have John at his wits' end, so he decides to take his insane flatmate to the one place, probably in the world, where no one will mind. It's Sherlock and John in Tennessee, and madness will out.
Four: Café Americana
Oh, yes. John decided it was good to have an in with the British government...British secret service...CIA...whatever Mycroft was this week. First class was definitely the only way to fly. John snuggled soundly into his cozy cocoon of a seat and did his level best to forget the morning thus far.
Sherlock had, bizarrely, slipped through airport security without so much as a second glance. John, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He wasn’t detained or anything, it was far worse. He was recognized.
He’d been only a private when John knew him. His name was Aiden Warwick, and he was a chatty sort. Or, rather, talkative as Sherlock would say these days. And John was pleased to see a familiar face that wasn’t riddled with scars or plastered with a vacant, haunted stare. Warwick had been something of an office boy in the war, not likely to see action while there were generals needing their washing. He’d gotten past the metal detectors easily enough, but Warwick was determined to go over every minute detail of their lives since they’d last spoken. Sherlock hadn’t been amused. And an incensed Sherlock is an observant Sherlock. The consulting detective had gotten as far as Warwick’s newfound impotence before John had grabbed him by the arm and bodily moved him to the terminal entrance.
John had hoped after that to just get to the gate and board the plane already, but Sherlock naturally had other ideas. He’d flown to the Duty Free, perused absolutely every item on the shelves only to stock up on Toblerones (apparently a favourite, John couldn’t abide them. Something about honey and chocolate together seemed just a little wrong) and waltz away toward a bloody Starbucks. For God’s sake.
By the time they finally reached the gate, Sherlock was trembling visibly around his styrofoam cup, had a bit of chocolate smeared around the corner of his mouth, and had managed to make them late for their boarding.
But now it was over. They were in their seats, the plane was in the air, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to muff things up.
“Fuck...Fuck off...” He heard the unmistakable baritone beside him. He groaned.
“Sherlock, what are you doing now?”
“Collquial profanity, John. Very important. One might even go so far as to consider it the backbone of communication.”
“Okay, but do you have to do it aloud?”
“Out loud.”
“Oh, shut it.”
“Shut up.”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock glared over at him, his face a study in impatience. “John, this is actually far more complex than you’d imagine. If you’d kindly let me work, I hope to have the phraseology well in hand before we arrive.”
“Why is this so important to you?” John demanded. “Even if we don’t sound like Yanks we can still get our point across.”
“The art of disguise, John. You said yourself the United States can prove hostile to outsiders. Only a fool would go unprepared for unforseen complications.”
John sighed. “Alright, give me the list.”
Sherlock gave him a tight smile and handed over the paper. There were several hand-written additions to it, and it had pages now. John groaned quietly.
“Knackered.”
“Beat.”
“Sacked.”
“Fired.”
“Aluminium.”
“Aluminum.”
“What, really?”
“Yes, keep going.”
John shrugged. “Take-away.”
“Take out.”
“Rubbish.”
“Garbage.”
And on, and on, until they both fell asleep to a truly heinous film. Oh, pardon. Movie.
“At this point your pilot would like to welcome you to Knoxville, Tennessee. The local time is 1:26 p.m. and the temperature is a mild 57 degrees. We are approaching our final descent into Tyson McGhee Airport, we hope you have enjoyed your flight and have a wonderful stay.”
“Fifty-seven degrees...?” John breathed, disbelieving.
“Farenheit, John. Do wake up.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Our flight was delayed by almost two hours, apparently. I gather we were flying above a storm.”
“Oh. We were?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely.”
“Great.” Sherlock said automatically.
“Oh, please don’t start. I’ll use the lingo if and when it becomes necessary, not before. I’m English. Geography won’t change that.”
“You’re grumpy when you wake up.”
“Grump...oh piss off.”
“Buzz off, here. And it’s rarely used. Oh, look, you can see the buildings now.”
“You can, Sherlock. I don’t have a window seat.”
“Turbulance coming, John.”
“How can you--” He was cut off by a sharp juddering in the plane. He felt vaguely as though he were a tossed salad. After several bone-rattling moments, the plane eased from nearly vertical back to horizontal. There was a sharp jolt as the landing gear made contact with the runway, and after a time the plane came to a slow stop alongside their gate.
Sherlock was on his feet before the pilot had finished his speech, and John barely had time to blink before his carry-on bag was thrust painfully into his chest and Sherlock’s spider-like fingers were clenched around his arm and he was yanked to his feet.
“Are you getting off the plane? Or do I leave you here for the flight attendants to sort out?” Sherlock demanded.
Wearily, John fell into step behind the detective and was soon jostled from behind by a very impatient line of travellers waiting to disembark. With a deep, long-suffering sigh, he made his way clumsily to the front of the plane so he could take his first steps on American carpeting.
Oh. Thought John as a burly, tanned man in a security uniform patted him down. So this is what a criminal feels like. Another man, smaller in stature, was riffling through his bags with surgical intensity. A deep, rolling laugh from just ahead caused him to lift his head. Sherlock was recieving similar treatment at an identical table just up the corridor from John, but rather than grumbling or pouting about it, he seemed to be striking up a conversation with his detail. John saw him tilt his head back and laugh that low, rich laugh of his that made women like Molly misplace their centre of gravity. The security guard patting down Sherlock’s jacket was grinning madly, his teeth a blazing white against his deep black skin. The man pawing through Sherlock’s suitcase looked to be snorting back laughter. Damn you, Holmes. John seethed.
They were finally released from the inspection, only to find themselves trapped at the back of a seemingly endless queue of impatient men and women shifting their weight from foot to foot.
“Hey, what was that back there?” John asked.
“Hm? What? Oh, the search. I was just explaining the dangers of riding atop a double-decker bus in the rush hour to Cecil and Riley. They’re very fond of first names here, did you know? I honestly don’t know what their surnames are.”
“What is it with you?” John demanded. “Back home you can’t manage two words of conversation before making someone contemplate murdering you, and here you’re Mr. Popularity.”
Sherlock beamed. “New country, John. Whole new horizons.” And he strode off to cover the distance that had suddenly opened in front of them. John, naturally, followed.
“Name?” The woman demanded. Her voice was tired, her eyes puffy. She held out her hand expectantly.
“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective didn’t miss a beat, and he handed her his passport.
“And your reason for visiting the United States of America is business or pleasure?”
“Oh, most definitely pleasure. Perhaps a dash of business if it comes up, but I’m not actively seeking it out.” He was being a complete idiot, but the woman seemed to be eating it up. She lowered her eyelids a bit and curved her lips into a shy smile. It made her burgundy lipgloss sparkle in the flourescent lights.
“And...how long will you be staying?” She asked, coyly.
“Oh, just a month. Can’t have too much of a good thing, can we...Shanise?” John could hear the raised eyebrow. Dear, God he’d slipped into another universe, it was the only explanation. The woman, Shanise, tittered at Sherlock and gently pressed a stamp against a page in his passport. John heard the familiar click that accompanied one of Sherlock’s puckish winks just as his flatmate marched on, his coat tucked firmly under on arm.
John approached Shanise’s desk, his passport at the ready.
“Name?” She asked. Her voice was distant and distracted, and her eyes kept glancing in the direction Sherlock had gone.
“John Watson.”
“Are you with him?” She asked. Somehow that did not seem standard procedure.
John sighed. “Yes, I am. I’m his minder.”
“His what?”
“His doctor.” John slipped into the familiar excuse as easily as pulling on a glove. Doctors, eh? Necessary evil and all that.
“Oh...” Shanise seemed to be calculating something. “So, business then?”
“Not if I can help it. I’m hoping he manages somehow to stay out of trouble for a bit.”
“I’ll put you down for both.” She said warmly. Oh, well. Perhaps Americans at home were a bit more genteel than the ones on holiday.
“One month, right?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy your time in the United States Dr. Watson.” She said, handing him back a freshly stamped passport.
“Thank you, Miss...”
“Shanise, sweetie. Just Shanise.”
“Shanise.” He nodded. It felt strange to have a complete stranger treat him so...well it was just strange. And “sweetie”? Did people actually say that? He grabbed his bag and followed in Sherlock’s endless wake, shaking his head as though he could rattle some comprehension into it.
He found Sherlock flitting about the luggage claim, no doubt piecing together everyone’s life stories from the colour of their suitcase or the amount of wear on the handle or something. John knew he was being unreasonably tetchy at the moment, but just then he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was tired, he was sore, he was jet lagged and Sherlock was somehow managing to be a completely different person and yet more Sherlock than John had ever seen him. It gave John a headache, quite honestly, and he just wanted to get to the fla--apartement and collapse onto the nearest bed until the world came back into focus.
“Ah! John, there you are. I’ve got your bags here. Are you ready to go out on the town?”
“I’m ready to collapse, Sherlock. Let’s just get to the university and call it a day.”
Sherlock looked puzzled. “John, it’s barely gone two and you want to sleep?”
John grumbled. “No, Sherlock, it is not two. It is, in fact, seventeen hundred hours. It is evening, in the sane world, and you’ve kept me awake since three this morning. Sleep on an aeroplane--”
“Airplane.”
“Shut it! Sleep on a plane is hardly sleep at all. I’ve got a crick in my neck, my shoulder is on fire, I’m completely exhausted and I just. Want. To. Lie. Down. Can you accept that, Mr. American? Or am I going to have to find my way to the university on my own?”
Sherlock sighed and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Fine. We can go to the apartment and meet Anthony Bruges and you can be boring and predictable all day long, will that help you turn back into John Watson again?”
“Oh for Christ’s...let’s just go Sherlock.”
“Fine!”
And together they stormed out of the terminal, out of the airport, and onto American soil, where Sherlock still managed to hail a cab on the first try. Tosser.
Story Type: Fanfiction
Genre(s): Friendship, Action/Adventure, Angst, Humour, Culture Shock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, slight John/OFC
Rating: PG-13/R (corpses)
Spoilers: Nothing overt, but best to have seen S1
Warnings: Graphic depictions of decomposed human remains, dodgy psychology
Summary: Sherlock's morbid obsessions have John at his wits' end, so he decides to take his insane flatmate to the one place, probably in the world, where no one will mind. It's Sherlock and John in Tennessee, and madness will out.
Four: Café Americana
Oh, yes. John decided it was good to have an in with the British government...British secret service...CIA...whatever Mycroft was this week. First class was definitely the only way to fly. John snuggled soundly into his cozy cocoon of a seat and did his level best to forget the morning thus far.
Sherlock had, bizarrely, slipped through airport security without so much as a second glance. John, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. He wasn’t detained or anything, it was far worse. He was recognized.
He’d been only a private when John knew him. His name was Aiden Warwick, and he was a chatty sort. Or, rather, talkative as Sherlock would say these days. And John was pleased to see a familiar face that wasn’t riddled with scars or plastered with a vacant, haunted stare. Warwick had been something of an office boy in the war, not likely to see action while there were generals needing their washing. He’d gotten past the metal detectors easily enough, but Warwick was determined to go over every minute detail of their lives since they’d last spoken. Sherlock hadn’t been amused. And an incensed Sherlock is an observant Sherlock. The consulting detective had gotten as far as Warwick’s newfound impotence before John had grabbed him by the arm and bodily moved him to the terminal entrance.
John had hoped after that to just get to the gate and board the plane already, but Sherlock naturally had other ideas. He’d flown to the Duty Free, perused absolutely every item on the shelves only to stock up on Toblerones (apparently a favourite, John couldn’t abide them. Something about honey and chocolate together seemed just a little wrong) and waltz away toward a bloody Starbucks. For God’s sake.
By the time they finally reached the gate, Sherlock was trembling visibly around his styrofoam cup, had a bit of chocolate smeared around the corner of his mouth, and had managed to make them late for their boarding.
But now it was over. They were in their seats, the plane was in the air, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to muff things up.
“Fuck...Fuck off...” He heard the unmistakable baritone beside him. He groaned.
“Sherlock, what are you doing now?”
“Collquial profanity, John. Very important. One might even go so far as to consider it the backbone of communication.”
“Okay, but do you have to do it aloud?”
“Out loud.”
“Oh, shut it.”
“Shut up.”
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock glared over at him, his face a study in impatience. “John, this is actually far more complex than you’d imagine. If you’d kindly let me work, I hope to have the phraseology well in hand before we arrive.”
“Why is this so important to you?” John demanded. “Even if we don’t sound like Yanks we can still get our point across.”
“The art of disguise, John. You said yourself the United States can prove hostile to outsiders. Only a fool would go unprepared for unforseen complications.”
John sighed. “Alright, give me the list.”
Sherlock gave him a tight smile and handed over the paper. There were several hand-written additions to it, and it had pages now. John groaned quietly.
“Knackered.”
“Beat.”
“Sacked.”
“Fired.”
“Aluminium.”
“Aluminum.”
“What, really?”
“Yes, keep going.”
John shrugged. “Take-away.”
“Take out.”
“Rubbish.”
“Garbage.”
And on, and on, until they both fell asleep to a truly heinous film. Oh, pardon. Movie.
“At this point your pilot would like to welcome you to Knoxville, Tennessee. The local time is 1:26 p.m. and the temperature is a mild 57 degrees. We are approaching our final descent into Tyson McGhee Airport, we hope you have enjoyed your flight and have a wonderful stay.”
“Fifty-seven degrees...?” John breathed, disbelieving.
“Farenheit, John. Do wake up.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Our flight was delayed by almost two hours, apparently. I gather we were flying above a storm.”
“Oh. We were?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely.”
“Great.” Sherlock said automatically.
“Oh, please don’t start. I’ll use the lingo if and when it becomes necessary, not before. I’m English. Geography won’t change that.”
“You’re grumpy when you wake up.”
“Grump...oh piss off.”
“Buzz off, here. And it’s rarely used. Oh, look, you can see the buildings now.”
“You can, Sherlock. I don’t have a window seat.”
“Turbulance coming, John.”
“How can you--” He was cut off by a sharp juddering in the plane. He felt vaguely as though he were a tossed salad. After several bone-rattling moments, the plane eased from nearly vertical back to horizontal. There was a sharp jolt as the landing gear made contact with the runway, and after a time the plane came to a slow stop alongside their gate.
Sherlock was on his feet before the pilot had finished his speech, and John barely had time to blink before his carry-on bag was thrust painfully into his chest and Sherlock’s spider-like fingers were clenched around his arm and he was yanked to his feet.
“Are you getting off the plane? Or do I leave you here for the flight attendants to sort out?” Sherlock demanded.
Wearily, John fell into step behind the detective and was soon jostled from behind by a very impatient line of travellers waiting to disembark. With a deep, long-suffering sigh, he made his way clumsily to the front of the plane so he could take his first steps on American carpeting.
Oh. Thought John as a burly, tanned man in a security uniform patted him down. So this is what a criminal feels like. Another man, smaller in stature, was riffling through his bags with surgical intensity. A deep, rolling laugh from just ahead caused him to lift his head. Sherlock was recieving similar treatment at an identical table just up the corridor from John, but rather than grumbling or pouting about it, he seemed to be striking up a conversation with his detail. John saw him tilt his head back and laugh that low, rich laugh of his that made women like Molly misplace their centre of gravity. The security guard patting down Sherlock’s jacket was grinning madly, his teeth a blazing white against his deep black skin. The man pawing through Sherlock’s suitcase looked to be snorting back laughter. Damn you, Holmes. John seethed.
They were finally released from the inspection, only to find themselves trapped at the back of a seemingly endless queue of impatient men and women shifting their weight from foot to foot.
“Hey, what was that back there?” John asked.
“Hm? What? Oh, the search. I was just explaining the dangers of riding atop a double-decker bus in the rush hour to Cecil and Riley. They’re very fond of first names here, did you know? I honestly don’t know what their surnames are.”
“What is it with you?” John demanded. “Back home you can’t manage two words of conversation before making someone contemplate murdering you, and here you’re Mr. Popularity.”
Sherlock beamed. “New country, John. Whole new horizons.” And he strode off to cover the distance that had suddenly opened in front of them. John, naturally, followed.
“Name?” The woman demanded. Her voice was tired, her eyes puffy. She held out her hand expectantly.
“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective didn’t miss a beat, and he handed her his passport.
“And your reason for visiting the United States of America is business or pleasure?”
“Oh, most definitely pleasure. Perhaps a dash of business if it comes up, but I’m not actively seeking it out.” He was being a complete idiot, but the woman seemed to be eating it up. She lowered her eyelids a bit and curved her lips into a shy smile. It made her burgundy lipgloss sparkle in the flourescent lights.
“And...how long will you be staying?” She asked, coyly.
“Oh, just a month. Can’t have too much of a good thing, can we...Shanise?” John could hear the raised eyebrow. Dear, God he’d slipped into another universe, it was the only explanation. The woman, Shanise, tittered at Sherlock and gently pressed a stamp against a page in his passport. John heard the familiar click that accompanied one of Sherlock’s puckish winks just as his flatmate marched on, his coat tucked firmly under on arm.
John approached Shanise’s desk, his passport at the ready.
“Name?” She asked. Her voice was distant and distracted, and her eyes kept glancing in the direction Sherlock had gone.
“John Watson.”
“Are you with him?” She asked. Somehow that did not seem standard procedure.
John sighed. “Yes, I am. I’m his minder.”
“His what?”
“His doctor.” John slipped into the familiar excuse as easily as pulling on a glove. Doctors, eh? Necessary evil and all that.
“Oh...” Shanise seemed to be calculating something. “So, business then?”
“Not if I can help it. I’m hoping he manages somehow to stay out of trouble for a bit.”
“I’ll put you down for both.” She said warmly. Oh, well. Perhaps Americans at home were a bit more genteel than the ones on holiday.
“One month, right?”
“Yes.”
“Enjoy your time in the United States Dr. Watson.” She said, handing him back a freshly stamped passport.
“Thank you, Miss...”
“Shanise, sweetie. Just Shanise.”
“Shanise.” He nodded. It felt strange to have a complete stranger treat him so...well it was just strange. And “sweetie”? Did people actually say that? He grabbed his bag and followed in Sherlock’s endless wake, shaking his head as though he could rattle some comprehension into it.
He found Sherlock flitting about the luggage claim, no doubt piecing together everyone’s life stories from the colour of their suitcase or the amount of wear on the handle or something. John knew he was being unreasonably tetchy at the moment, but just then he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was tired, he was sore, he was jet lagged and Sherlock was somehow managing to be a completely different person and yet more Sherlock than John had ever seen him. It gave John a headache, quite honestly, and he just wanted to get to the fla--apartement and collapse onto the nearest bed until the world came back into focus.
“Ah! John, there you are. I’ve got your bags here. Are you ready to go out on the town?”
“I’m ready to collapse, Sherlock. Let’s just get to the university and call it a day.”
Sherlock looked puzzled. “John, it’s barely gone two and you want to sleep?”
John grumbled. “No, Sherlock, it is not two. It is, in fact, seventeen hundred hours. It is evening, in the sane world, and you’ve kept me awake since three this morning. Sleep on an aeroplane--”
“Airplane.”
“Shut it! Sleep on a plane is hardly sleep at all. I’ve got a crick in my neck, my shoulder is on fire, I’m completely exhausted and I just. Want. To. Lie. Down. Can you accept that, Mr. American? Or am I going to have to find my way to the university on my own?”
Sherlock sighed and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Fine. We can go to the apartment and meet Anthony Bruges and you can be boring and predictable all day long, will that help you turn back into John Watson again?”
“Oh for Christ’s...let’s just go Sherlock.”
“Fine!”
And together they stormed out of the terminal, out of the airport, and onto American soil, where Sherlock still managed to hail a cab on the first try. Tosser.