Fic: A Fiddle in the Band (2/?)
Title: A Fiddle in the Band (2/?)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Eventual John/Sherlock, Mary Morstan, Molly Hooper
Warnings: Country Music
Rating: PG
Summary: John Watson writes country western music. Sherlock Holmes sings it.
A/N: If I’d been thinking ahead, I would have posted this chapter for the CMA awards Wednesday night. I can’t claim I didn’t know about them, the country radio stations here have been advertising like their lives depended on it. (Or at least their funding.)
Please note that I’ve made a small change to Chapter One - mostly extending Sherlock’s musical career to include playing fiddle on background/solo tracks for other artists, and having a couple of Top Ten hits of his own. He’s not a huge star yet, but it’s rising and it’s a sign of John’s distance from society that he doesn’t know his name.
Chapter title and the song Mary sings is Keith Urban’s ‘Til Summer Comes Around. The song she uses to make fun of John is Alabama’s Mountain Music (the video is from their performance at the 1982 CMA show - it’s watchable only because the hair is hysterical). As always, the song John writes was written by me. I’ll try not to do that too often.
Chapter One
Chapter Two: The Winter Wind
The gap in the fence on the northwest side of the pasture wasn’t so much a gap as it was the supporting post completely disintegrating, which meant the planks on either side had fallen to the ground. Seeing it, John was surprised half the horses hadn’t gone wandering. Or maybe they had, and had already determined he was the best source of food for a few miles.
Remy, who was normally at least a little curious about oddities in his living areas, didn’t seem all that interested in the gap - John wondered how long it’d been there. He ought to have been riding the perimeter every day, or at least every other, to check the fence, but he hadn’t been able to do it in a week. Irresponsible, and John swore under his breath - it was his word that he could take care of the horses, and his word was the only good thing left in him. John didn’t want to let Murray down - but there was something more, too. John didn’t want to lose the only thing left in him that he recognized.
The dog barked, and John tensed. Someone’s coming, he thought, and scanned the horizon. But he didn’t see anyone, and when the dog barked again, John turned around to see it barking at Remy, forepaws flat on the ground, tail wagging excitedly. Playtime, apparently, and John frowned and turned back to the fence. Work to be done, and John could see the dark clouds on the horizon.
John ran his hands down the splintered post. The wood was still smooth on the exterior, worn by wind and rain and snow, but the exposed insides were ragged and sharp. It was cracked clear off the base, and the wood showed signs of rot; who knew how long it’d been ready to fall over at the slightest touch. Even if he tried to fix it, it wouldn’t last the winter, and he’d just need to replace it later. Better to do it now. There were extra slats in the upper eaves in the barn; he’d have to check if there were posts, too. And they’d need mallets and possibly a crowbar to get the old post out of the ground…he’d have to go back, and sure there’d be half a dozen things that would pop up while he was at the barn. Things always popped up. John patted his pockets, found the notebook and pencil he kept on him for ideas, and quickly scratched out a note to Mary. He wedged it into the splinters of the post, and then went back to Remy, who watched placidly as the dog tried to engage him in play. John couldn’t decide if Remy looked amused or annoyed. With horses, it was sometimes hard to tell.
“Well, come on,” he said, irritably, to the dog, who raced ahead of Remy, and then doubled back, wondering why Remy wasn’t willing to play. “You know a horse goes faster than you, right?” John asked the dog, but the dog just barked happily back, not caring a whit. John snorted, and didn’t give in.
He saw the truck parked outside the stables before he recognized it. He hesitated, pulling Remy back in an almost unconscious motion, and Remy huffed a protest, rippled the muscles under his skin. Thinking of water and warm oats and other lovely things, no doubt, not caring that John was breathing heavily on his back. The dog, who had managed to keep up with them only because John hadn’t set Remy to a full gallop, circled happily, ears flat against its head, tongue out the side of its mouth.
John wasn’t expecting visitors. Middle of the morning, middle of the week - none of the horse’s owners would be coming by for a ride or a conversation, all busy with whatever work kept them. None of the teenagers who seemed to hang around the stables like horseflies in the summer would be looking for any old reason to stay underfoot; they’d all be in school. Remy shifted, clearly wanting to go on, not quite understanding the reticence of his rider, and John struggled to calm his breathing and keep balance. The dog barked, a little less forgiving than the horse.
There was someone in the barn, and where once John might have welcomed a visitor, now he ran the truck through his own mental database, trying to remember its owner. Pale blue pick-up, shiny but not actually new, covered bed, writing on the side. The vet.
John let out the breath he didn’t realize he held, and clicked at Remy. “Let’s go,” he said, and squeezed his shaking hand around the reins, pressing it to Remy’s neck. He reached the barn just as Molly was coming out, holding a lead in her hands.
“H’llo, Molly,” said John, and Molly looked up, shading her eyes. “Everything all right?”
“The Harrisons wanted me to check Calufrax’s eyes again,” explained Molly. “Is he in the west paddock?”
“As requested. Booker and Thunderbolt are with him, they’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“He seem especially skittish to you?”
“Only when I’m late bringing his supper. But they’re right, his eyes are weeping more heavily these days. He can’t stand for me to go near ‘em.”
Molly sighed. “Damn. All right. I might need help, if he’s resisting.”
“You won’t have trouble bringing him in; he likes pretty ladies more than he likes me,” said John dryly, and Molly blushed.
“I’ll just go round and get him, then.”
“Holler if you need me,” said John, and tied Remy loosely to one of the hitching posts just outside the barn, near a trough of water. “Won’t be a moment, Rem.”
Wooden slats, piles of them, chicken wire and extra corrugated sheeting for the roof; empty burlap sacks and trunks that might have been left over from the previous century. Old saddles with leather so worn it was shiny, and a pile of rope that looked to be tied in knots. Halters so twisted together John didn’t think anyone had a hope of untangling them. But no posts, not anywhere John could see, and he swore. Who knew how long the post had been down, and he couldn’t let it go much longer, or he really would have horses wandering the plains, which never led to any good. He was lucky an owner hadn’t come by to find their horse missing already.
“John!”
Molly, downstairs. John sighed and kicked at a stray stirrup, sending it skittering across the floor. “Just coming,” he called back, and made his way down the ladder, careful to loop his arm around the ladder instead of trusting his fingers, which were already aching with cold. And it wasn’t even all that cold yet - barely October. He didn’t care to think about how much colder it’d get by January.
Molly had hooked Calufrax to the standing leads in the center of the aisle, and he was waiting patiently, head down, while she rummaged in her medical kit. He was still wearing his fly mask - less about the flies in the cold weather, more to keep his eyes clean from debris. John went up to the horse, shushing and clucking as he grew nearer, and patted his nose gently.
“Hey, Frax,” he said softly, and Calufrax sniffed against his hands, looking for a treat. “Nope, sorry, no carrots today. Maybe when Doc Molly’s done with you, if she says it’s okay.”
“Exactly what the doctor ordered,” said Molly, and she turned around. “I need to take a look at those eyes and then wash them out. It won’t hurt him, but he doesn’t like me doing it.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Hold his head and distract him. Don’t worry about keeping his head still, you won’t be able to do it. You know…just…keep talking to him.”
“Bedside manner,” said John, and helped remove Calufrax’s mask.
The eyes were weeping again, leaving a dark wet trail down the side of the horse’s head. Crust had formed around the eye itself, dark yellow, gluing the horse’s long lashes into a spiderweb over his dark eyes. John was impressed that Calufrax could see at all, with that mess.
“Aw, Frax, you should have said something,” he scolded the horse. “Well, you probably did, I was distracted this morning. Sorry, boy.”
Calufrax huffed into John’s hand, and John ran his fingers down his forehead, across his cheek, patting and rubbing alternately while he wound his left hand into the horse’s halter. Calufrax kept looking between John and Molly.
“All right, Frax,” said Molly, soothingly, “here we go.”
Calufrax didn’t buck or fight, so much as shy away from Molly, who was humming a song under her breath, but John couldn’t make it out for concentrating on Frax. John tried to keep him steady, shushing and clicking and making every noise he’d ever heard anyone make around a horse, one hand holding tight to the halter in an attempt to keep Calufrax’s head down, where Molly had some hope of reaching his eyes.
Calufrax shuddered and whimpered and finally stilled, pressing against John as if looking for warmth and comfort. John rubbed the spot he knew Frax liked best, and saw his reflection in Frax’s dark brown eye, lashes breaking up the pattern of the barn. His left hand was warm next to Frax, and the tremor had abated. For a moment, John thought Calufrax was amused, wondering which of them was in worse shape.
It was as Molly finished wiping all the crud and wet away that John finally heard the song Molly was singing.
The brightest gold will turn to brass in the harsh light of the day
The fields of wheat will turn to grass; life has always been that way
The words sounded sweet and pure when sung by Molly’s soprano. Hopeful and loving, almost a lullaby, and John tried to shut out the words, but they rose from his own memory, unbidden, keeping time as Molly continued to soothe Calufrax with them.
“What the hell are you singing, Moll?” asked John finally, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“Song they’ve been playing on the radio a lot,” said Molly. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Little dark for a lullaby, don’t you think?”
“Dark?” Molly frowned.
“The whole song is about how reality is never as good as what you’ve been promised when you were a kid. You grow up thinking adulthood is going to be this fantastic ride where everything you want is there for the taking, and instead-” John snorted, not quite sure how to end the statement. And anyway, hadn’t he made it clearer in the context of the song?
“Are we talking about the same song? Because that’s not what I heard at all.”
What the hell had Sherlock Holmes done to his song, if Molly didn’t understand?
“Maybe not,” muttered John, and leaned his forehead against Calufrax. The horse let out a soft whinny, and tried to turn his head to cradle John. “Hey, now, don’t smother me. Doc Molly’s not done with you yet.”
“Maybe it’s the video,” said Molly. “The way he sings it - it’s like he’s singing it straight to you, singing it about you. I don’t know how he does it, it’s the same for every person I’ve talked to who’s seen it.”
“Video?”
Molly smiled. “Video, John, you know, when there’s a camera and someone records a picture as well as the sound? They play it on this newfangled thing called a television.”
“I know what television is, thank you.” John’s right arm was beginning to ache, and there - the left hand was beginning to tremble again. Dammit.
“Sometimes I wonder what century you’re from, John Watson,” said Molly. “There, all done, Calufrax, you did such a good job. A whole bushel of carrots’ worth, I think. John, is there an extra hood somewhere? We ought to disinfect the old one before we replace it.”
“In the storage closet,” said John. He had to work to unwind his fingers from Calufrax’s halter. “He gonna be all right?”
“Oh, sure, it’s only conjunctivitis.”
“Pink eye.”
“Same as with humans, really. You’ll need to wash his eyes out and put in more meds tonight, and twice tomorrow too.” Molly closed her case and turned around. She ran her hand down Calufrax’s neck soothingly. “You’ll be just fine, Frax, in a day or two.”
“I’ll take him back out,” said John, unhooking the lead lines.
“No, it’s fine - I need to run Toby today and I might as well do it while I’m here. North paddock?”
“Yup. I have to run into town for a couple of hours, can you run Remy back out to the paddock when you get Toby?”
“Of course. Thanks for helping me with Frax - it would have taken twice as long if I’d had to do it myself.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said John in an attempt to sound cheerful. Instead, it only sounded forced.
“No, but you’re good with them, you know - the horses, I mean. They like you. Even Bastian, and he doesn’t like anyone.”
“Bastian’s just ornery, that’s all,” said John dismissively. “Comes of being beaten a few too many times.”
“I agree, but see, that’s exactly it. The last manager, he didn’t care that Bastian was mistreated, he just wanted to write him off as a lost cause. You, though, you’re working with him and trying to rehabilitate him and that’s more than most would do.”
John’s fingers twitched against his jeans. He couldn’t look Molly in the eye, and pulled out his notebook instead. A list, he’d make a list, show her he was too busy for platitudes or whatever it was she was trying to do. New post, he wrote down. Carrots. “Everyone deserves a second chance, that’s all,” he said, and wrote down fly mask for Frax?
“Not everyone sees it that way. Not when it comes to cases like Bastian’s.”
“Bastian’s not a case, he’s a fact of life,” snapped John suddenly, and Molly’s eyes widened.
“I-“
John sighed. Too close, much too close. “Shoot, I’m just doing what any person worth their salt would have done.”
“Montague would have just stood there with Frax, not tried to comfort him or anything.”
“Well, then, Montague was an asshole,” said John. “I need to get going if I’m going to be back to fix that post before dark.”
Molly shifted. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, a bit meeker now. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” said John. It wasn’t Molly’s fault if she touched a nerve.
“Will you…you won’t be long in town, will you?”
“Don’t expect to be.”
Molly hesitated. “I could…I brought lunch with me. I could wait to eat it until you get back?”
“I’ll probably try to get something in town,” said John absently.
“Right,” said Molly. “Best…best be going then.”
Molly fled.
It was only after the stables were empty that John realized she’d been trying to ask him to eat lunch with her. A date, in a way.
John groaned, and hit his head on the nearest wooden post. It hurt, which was somehow better than remembering the way Molly had tried to cover her clearly crestfallen expression with a false sense of direction.
The really ridiculous part was that even had John realized what she was asking - he still would have said no. He just wouldn’t have been such an utter moron about it.
The dog, who’d been watching the entire exchange from the doorway, barked at him.
“Oh, don’t you start,” said John, and banged his head once more for good measure before heading out to the truck and going into town.
*
The song was playing on the radio on the drive into town. John listened to half of it, and turned the radio off before he’d have to admit that Molly was right.
*
Mary was already in the field by the time John returned to the broken fence post. At least, he assumed Mary was there - he could see Pondicherry grazing under one of the trees, but no sign of her blonde head nearby. John stood up on Remy’s stirrups, and scanned the ground - but Pondicherry wouldn’t have been half as calm if she’d been hurt.
“Easy, Remy,” said John absently, and then Mary appeared, sitting up in the tall grass like a Jack-in-the-box.
“You’re late,” she accused, getting up to her feet, and John settled back down on the saddle.
“I had to go into town for a new post,” explained John. He pulled Remy to a halt and got back down on the ground before starting to untie the ropes on the saddle’s horn. Remy nickered a hello to Pondicherry, who eyed the slats of wood behind him warily.
“So I see. You could have called and let me know.”
“I tried, you weren’t at home.”
Mary rolled her eyes and pulled her cell phone from her jeans pocket. “Welcome to the 21st century, John Watson.”
John unwound the ropes from the new post. “Give me one good reason why being in constant touch with the world is a good idea.”
“Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have been waiting for you for the last forty-five minutes.”
John winced.
“Well, five,” admitted Mary. “I spent the first forty getting the old post out. Had to use up Pondi’s excess energy somehow.”
“No wonder he’s tired,” said John, and hefted the new post to the gaping hole in the ground. “Can you hold it steady?”
“You bet,” said Mary, and waited until John had already given the post a few blows with the mallet before talking again. “Saw Doc Hooper circling your property this morning.”
“Ooof,” grunted John as the mallet swung and hit the post. He could feel the vibrations run down his bones and into his shoulder; the original deep tissue massage, he thought, as he swung his arms around for another blow.
“Thought she was looking pretty today,” added Mary.
“Why, Mary,” said John. “Learn something new about you every day.”
Mary leaned over and swatted his leg. “For you, you ninny.”
“She was checking on Calufrax’s eyes, not making eyes at me.”
“She wasn’t prettying herself up for Frax, Watson. And she sure wasn’t going to do it for me.”
John slammed the mallet onto the post again. “See it how you want to.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Have I hit a nerve?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
Mary went quiet and John kept pounding the post into the ground. It was quick work - the ground was hard, but the hole was already fairly deep, it was only a matter of making sure the slightly longer post was even with the existing ones. By the time John had finished, however, he’d broken into a thin sweat. It was too cold to strip his shirt off - and Mary would have made a comment, but he still shed his coat to cool down a little.
Mary still let out a wolf whistle when he took off the coat though. He threw it at her, and she caught it with a laugh.
“That should do it,” said John, breathing heavily, and he spun his arms in circles to keep the muscles loose. His shoulder ached, and his fingers tingled.
“All right?”
“Yeah, need a minute, that’s all,” said John. “I can handle the slats myself, if you want to go on home.”
“It’s no trouble.” Mary kicked the post a few times. “You really knocked this into the ground, didn’t you? You’re stronger than you look.”
John snorted. Wasn’t that the truth.
“Maybe Molly’s on to something,” mused Mary.
“Help me with the slats if you’re going to stay,” said John, and Mary dropped his coat over one of the other posts and helped arranged the slats back into place.
And then she started to hum.
His song.
John gritted his teeth, thought about asking her to stop, and didn’t. Mary was far more perceptive than Molly, who wasn’t exactly a slouch when it came to interpreting other people. She’d figured out it hit a nerve earlier, she just hadn’t questioned it. Mary would question. Mary would want to know about the nerve. And knowing Mary, she’d figure it out.
The last thing John wanted was for Mary to know.
“At least sing something good if you’re going to sing,” said John, trying to sound jovial. He didn’t think he succeeded. “Can’t stand that newfangled not-country on the radio these days.”
“Philistine.”
“Is that what they’re calling it?”
“That’s what I’m calling you.” Mary grinned at him. “Grandpa.”
“Grandpa?”
Mary began to sing. “Oh play me some mountain music, like grandma and grandpa used to play.”
John rolled his eyes and reached for another slat.
He was about to join in on the next verse when Mary switched songs, singing under her breath where he couldn’t quite make out the lyrics, or else it was effort to lift the slats that made her skip a few of the words. Not heavy - not for a girl who’d managed to remove the rotten old post on her own - but long and cumbersome.
But I close my eyes and one more time
We're spinning around and you're holding on tightly
Love song. That’s all country music ever was: lost love, unrequited love, new love, old love. And of all people in the world, John Watson had no business writing it.
The words came out, I kissed your mouth
No Fourth of July has ever burned so brightly
Mary struggled with the last slat of wood, but didn’t back down from it, didn’t ask for a moment to catch her breath. She just stopped singing for a moment as she struggled to hold the weight steady while John shifted into a better position. If they’d been a country song, the two of them right then, he’d be thinking about the sunlight in her hair. Or comparing her to the rock that steadied him, the oak tree that gave him strength.
Except they weren’t. John looked at Mary, and all he saw was…Mary.
The slat slid into place, and Mary let out a relieved sigh. She stepped away and wriggled her fingers appreciatively.
“All right, Grandpa,” said Mary cheerfully, a bit out of breath from exertion. John pulled the water bottles out of Remy’s saddlebags and tossed Mary one. “Thanks. I think it’s good, don’t you?”
“The music, yes. The fence, it’ll do.”
“You just don’t like anything recorded after 1985.”
“I don’t like anything recorded by someone who doesn’t wear a cowboy hat.”
“Johnny Cash played with Elvis,” said Mary smugly, and John glared at her. “The last musician I idolized wore a hat. You know what happened when he took it off? He was bald and called himself Chris Gaines. If you can’t be country without the hat, you weren’t country in the first place anyway.”
John rolled his eyes and drank down half the bottle of water. He didn’t want to give Mary the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
“If you’re done with me,” said Mary, and John tipped his hat for an answer. “I’ll be off. Take care where you leave your hat, cowboy.”
“That’s Grandpa cowboy to you,” countered John, and Mary’s laughed sailed back on the wind as she galloped away, the dust rising in a cloud behind her.
John watched until all he could see was the dust.
The words came unbidden, rising in his mind so complete, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t heard them somewhere before.
Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I
Shouldn’t I love you?
“Damn,” he said softly, and sat down on the grass near Remy. The notebook and pencil fit snugly into his hands, and he started to scratch out the words as they kept coming.
I’ve been bleeding in the dark and the dead of night
I’ve been praying for a miracle when the time was right
I’ve been looking for an angel who could light my way
You’re everything I hoped to find, but I look at you and say...
Couldn’t I, couldn’t I, couldn’t I
Couldn’t I love you?
Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I
Shouldn’t I love you?
Loving you would be so right
So why can’t, why can’t, why can’t
Why can’t I love you?
You would be so good for me.
Chapter Three
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Eventual John/Sherlock, Mary Morstan, Molly Hooper
Warnings: Country Music
Rating: PG
Summary: John Watson writes country western music. Sherlock Holmes sings it.
A/N: If I’d been thinking ahead, I would have posted this chapter for the CMA awards Wednesday night. I can’t claim I didn’t know about them, the country radio stations here have been advertising like their lives depended on it. (Or at least their funding.)
Please note that I’ve made a small change to Chapter One - mostly extending Sherlock’s musical career to include playing fiddle on background/solo tracks for other artists, and having a couple of Top Ten hits of his own. He’s not a huge star yet, but it’s rising and it’s a sign of John’s distance from society that he doesn’t know his name.
Chapter title and the song Mary sings is Keith Urban’s ‘Til Summer Comes Around. The song she uses to make fun of John is Alabama’s Mountain Music (the video is from their performance at the 1982 CMA show - it’s watchable only because the hair is hysterical). As always, the song John writes was written by me. I’ll try not to do that too often.
Chapter One
Chapter Two: The Winter Wind
The gap in the fence on the northwest side of the pasture wasn’t so much a gap as it was the supporting post completely disintegrating, which meant the planks on either side had fallen to the ground. Seeing it, John was surprised half the horses hadn’t gone wandering. Or maybe they had, and had already determined he was the best source of food for a few miles.
Remy, who was normally at least a little curious about oddities in his living areas, didn’t seem all that interested in the gap - John wondered how long it’d been there. He ought to have been riding the perimeter every day, or at least every other, to check the fence, but he hadn’t been able to do it in a week. Irresponsible, and John swore under his breath - it was his word that he could take care of the horses, and his word was the only good thing left in him. John didn’t want to let Murray down - but there was something more, too. John didn’t want to lose the only thing left in him that he recognized.
The dog barked, and John tensed. Someone’s coming, he thought, and scanned the horizon. But he didn’t see anyone, and when the dog barked again, John turned around to see it barking at Remy, forepaws flat on the ground, tail wagging excitedly. Playtime, apparently, and John frowned and turned back to the fence. Work to be done, and John could see the dark clouds on the horizon.
John ran his hands down the splintered post. The wood was still smooth on the exterior, worn by wind and rain and snow, but the exposed insides were ragged and sharp. It was cracked clear off the base, and the wood showed signs of rot; who knew how long it’d been ready to fall over at the slightest touch. Even if he tried to fix it, it wouldn’t last the winter, and he’d just need to replace it later. Better to do it now. There were extra slats in the upper eaves in the barn; he’d have to check if there were posts, too. And they’d need mallets and possibly a crowbar to get the old post out of the ground…he’d have to go back, and sure there’d be half a dozen things that would pop up while he was at the barn. Things always popped up. John patted his pockets, found the notebook and pencil he kept on him for ideas, and quickly scratched out a note to Mary. He wedged it into the splinters of the post, and then went back to Remy, who watched placidly as the dog tried to engage him in play. John couldn’t decide if Remy looked amused or annoyed. With horses, it was sometimes hard to tell.
“Well, come on,” he said, irritably, to the dog, who raced ahead of Remy, and then doubled back, wondering why Remy wasn’t willing to play. “You know a horse goes faster than you, right?” John asked the dog, but the dog just barked happily back, not caring a whit. John snorted, and didn’t give in.
He saw the truck parked outside the stables before he recognized it. He hesitated, pulling Remy back in an almost unconscious motion, and Remy huffed a protest, rippled the muscles under his skin. Thinking of water and warm oats and other lovely things, no doubt, not caring that John was breathing heavily on his back. The dog, who had managed to keep up with them only because John hadn’t set Remy to a full gallop, circled happily, ears flat against its head, tongue out the side of its mouth.
John wasn’t expecting visitors. Middle of the morning, middle of the week - none of the horse’s owners would be coming by for a ride or a conversation, all busy with whatever work kept them. None of the teenagers who seemed to hang around the stables like horseflies in the summer would be looking for any old reason to stay underfoot; they’d all be in school. Remy shifted, clearly wanting to go on, not quite understanding the reticence of his rider, and John struggled to calm his breathing and keep balance. The dog barked, a little less forgiving than the horse.
There was someone in the barn, and where once John might have welcomed a visitor, now he ran the truck through his own mental database, trying to remember its owner. Pale blue pick-up, shiny but not actually new, covered bed, writing on the side. The vet.
John let out the breath he didn’t realize he held, and clicked at Remy. “Let’s go,” he said, and squeezed his shaking hand around the reins, pressing it to Remy’s neck. He reached the barn just as Molly was coming out, holding a lead in her hands.
“H’llo, Molly,” said John, and Molly looked up, shading her eyes. “Everything all right?”
“The Harrisons wanted me to check Calufrax’s eyes again,” explained Molly. “Is he in the west paddock?”
“As requested. Booker and Thunderbolt are with him, they’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“He seem especially skittish to you?”
“Only when I’m late bringing his supper. But they’re right, his eyes are weeping more heavily these days. He can’t stand for me to go near ‘em.”
Molly sighed. “Damn. All right. I might need help, if he’s resisting.”
“You won’t have trouble bringing him in; he likes pretty ladies more than he likes me,” said John dryly, and Molly blushed.
“I’ll just go round and get him, then.”
“Holler if you need me,” said John, and tied Remy loosely to one of the hitching posts just outside the barn, near a trough of water. “Won’t be a moment, Rem.”
Wooden slats, piles of them, chicken wire and extra corrugated sheeting for the roof; empty burlap sacks and trunks that might have been left over from the previous century. Old saddles with leather so worn it was shiny, and a pile of rope that looked to be tied in knots. Halters so twisted together John didn’t think anyone had a hope of untangling them. But no posts, not anywhere John could see, and he swore. Who knew how long the post had been down, and he couldn’t let it go much longer, or he really would have horses wandering the plains, which never led to any good. He was lucky an owner hadn’t come by to find their horse missing already.
“John!”
Molly, downstairs. John sighed and kicked at a stray stirrup, sending it skittering across the floor. “Just coming,” he called back, and made his way down the ladder, careful to loop his arm around the ladder instead of trusting his fingers, which were already aching with cold. And it wasn’t even all that cold yet - barely October. He didn’t care to think about how much colder it’d get by January.
Molly had hooked Calufrax to the standing leads in the center of the aisle, and he was waiting patiently, head down, while she rummaged in her medical kit. He was still wearing his fly mask - less about the flies in the cold weather, more to keep his eyes clean from debris. John went up to the horse, shushing and clucking as he grew nearer, and patted his nose gently.
“Hey, Frax,” he said softly, and Calufrax sniffed against his hands, looking for a treat. “Nope, sorry, no carrots today. Maybe when Doc Molly’s done with you, if she says it’s okay.”
“Exactly what the doctor ordered,” said Molly, and she turned around. “I need to take a look at those eyes and then wash them out. It won’t hurt him, but he doesn’t like me doing it.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Hold his head and distract him. Don’t worry about keeping his head still, you won’t be able to do it. You know…just…keep talking to him.”
“Bedside manner,” said John, and helped remove Calufrax’s mask.
The eyes were weeping again, leaving a dark wet trail down the side of the horse’s head. Crust had formed around the eye itself, dark yellow, gluing the horse’s long lashes into a spiderweb over his dark eyes. John was impressed that Calufrax could see at all, with that mess.
“Aw, Frax, you should have said something,” he scolded the horse. “Well, you probably did, I was distracted this morning. Sorry, boy.”
Calufrax huffed into John’s hand, and John ran his fingers down his forehead, across his cheek, patting and rubbing alternately while he wound his left hand into the horse’s halter. Calufrax kept looking between John and Molly.
“All right, Frax,” said Molly, soothingly, “here we go.”
Calufrax didn’t buck or fight, so much as shy away from Molly, who was humming a song under her breath, but John couldn’t make it out for concentrating on Frax. John tried to keep him steady, shushing and clicking and making every noise he’d ever heard anyone make around a horse, one hand holding tight to the halter in an attempt to keep Calufrax’s head down, where Molly had some hope of reaching his eyes.
Calufrax shuddered and whimpered and finally stilled, pressing against John as if looking for warmth and comfort. John rubbed the spot he knew Frax liked best, and saw his reflection in Frax’s dark brown eye, lashes breaking up the pattern of the barn. His left hand was warm next to Frax, and the tremor had abated. For a moment, John thought Calufrax was amused, wondering which of them was in worse shape.
It was as Molly finished wiping all the crud and wet away that John finally heard the song Molly was singing.
The brightest gold will turn to brass in the harsh light of the day
The fields of wheat will turn to grass; life has always been that way
The words sounded sweet and pure when sung by Molly’s soprano. Hopeful and loving, almost a lullaby, and John tried to shut out the words, but they rose from his own memory, unbidden, keeping time as Molly continued to soothe Calufrax with them.
“What the hell are you singing, Moll?” asked John finally, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
“Song they’ve been playing on the radio a lot,” said Molly. “I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Little dark for a lullaby, don’t you think?”
“Dark?” Molly frowned.
“The whole song is about how reality is never as good as what you’ve been promised when you were a kid. You grow up thinking adulthood is going to be this fantastic ride where everything you want is there for the taking, and instead-” John snorted, not quite sure how to end the statement. And anyway, hadn’t he made it clearer in the context of the song?
“Are we talking about the same song? Because that’s not what I heard at all.”
What the hell had Sherlock Holmes done to his song, if Molly didn’t understand?
“Maybe not,” muttered John, and leaned his forehead against Calufrax. The horse let out a soft whinny, and tried to turn his head to cradle John. “Hey, now, don’t smother me. Doc Molly’s not done with you yet.”
“Maybe it’s the video,” said Molly. “The way he sings it - it’s like he’s singing it straight to you, singing it about you. I don’t know how he does it, it’s the same for every person I’ve talked to who’s seen it.”
“Video?”
Molly smiled. “Video, John, you know, when there’s a camera and someone records a picture as well as the sound? They play it on this newfangled thing called a television.”
“I know what television is, thank you.” John’s right arm was beginning to ache, and there - the left hand was beginning to tremble again. Dammit.
“Sometimes I wonder what century you’re from, John Watson,” said Molly. “There, all done, Calufrax, you did such a good job. A whole bushel of carrots’ worth, I think. John, is there an extra hood somewhere? We ought to disinfect the old one before we replace it.”
“In the storage closet,” said John. He had to work to unwind his fingers from Calufrax’s halter. “He gonna be all right?”
“Oh, sure, it’s only conjunctivitis.”
“Pink eye.”
“Same as with humans, really. You’ll need to wash his eyes out and put in more meds tonight, and twice tomorrow too.” Molly closed her case and turned around. She ran her hand down Calufrax’s neck soothingly. “You’ll be just fine, Frax, in a day or two.”
“I’ll take him back out,” said John, unhooking the lead lines.
“No, it’s fine - I need to run Toby today and I might as well do it while I’m here. North paddock?”
“Yup. I have to run into town for a couple of hours, can you run Remy back out to the paddock when you get Toby?”
“Of course. Thanks for helping me with Frax - it would have taken twice as long if I’d had to do it myself.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said John in an attempt to sound cheerful. Instead, it only sounded forced.
“No, but you’re good with them, you know - the horses, I mean. They like you. Even Bastian, and he doesn’t like anyone.”
“Bastian’s just ornery, that’s all,” said John dismissively. “Comes of being beaten a few too many times.”
“I agree, but see, that’s exactly it. The last manager, he didn’t care that Bastian was mistreated, he just wanted to write him off as a lost cause. You, though, you’re working with him and trying to rehabilitate him and that’s more than most would do.”
John’s fingers twitched against his jeans. He couldn’t look Molly in the eye, and pulled out his notebook instead. A list, he’d make a list, show her he was too busy for platitudes or whatever it was she was trying to do. New post, he wrote down. Carrots. “Everyone deserves a second chance, that’s all,” he said, and wrote down fly mask for Frax?
“Not everyone sees it that way. Not when it comes to cases like Bastian’s.”
“Bastian’s not a case, he’s a fact of life,” snapped John suddenly, and Molly’s eyes widened.
“I-“
John sighed. Too close, much too close. “Shoot, I’m just doing what any person worth their salt would have done.”
“Montague would have just stood there with Frax, not tried to comfort him or anything.”
“Well, then, Montague was an asshole,” said John. “I need to get going if I’m going to be back to fix that post before dark.”
Molly shifted. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said, a bit meeker now. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not,” said John. It wasn’t Molly’s fault if she touched a nerve.
“Will you…you won’t be long in town, will you?”
“Don’t expect to be.”
Molly hesitated. “I could…I brought lunch with me. I could wait to eat it until you get back?”
“I’ll probably try to get something in town,” said John absently.
“Right,” said Molly. “Best…best be going then.”
Molly fled.
It was only after the stables were empty that John realized she’d been trying to ask him to eat lunch with her. A date, in a way.
John groaned, and hit his head on the nearest wooden post. It hurt, which was somehow better than remembering the way Molly had tried to cover her clearly crestfallen expression with a false sense of direction.
The really ridiculous part was that even had John realized what she was asking - he still would have said no. He just wouldn’t have been such an utter moron about it.
The dog, who’d been watching the entire exchange from the doorway, barked at him.
“Oh, don’t you start,” said John, and banged his head once more for good measure before heading out to the truck and going into town.
*
The song was playing on the radio on the drive into town. John listened to half of it, and turned the radio off before he’d have to admit that Molly was right.
*
Mary was already in the field by the time John returned to the broken fence post. At least, he assumed Mary was there - he could see Pondicherry grazing under one of the trees, but no sign of her blonde head nearby. John stood up on Remy’s stirrups, and scanned the ground - but Pondicherry wouldn’t have been half as calm if she’d been hurt.
“Easy, Remy,” said John absently, and then Mary appeared, sitting up in the tall grass like a Jack-in-the-box.
“You’re late,” she accused, getting up to her feet, and John settled back down on the saddle.
“I had to go into town for a new post,” explained John. He pulled Remy to a halt and got back down on the ground before starting to untie the ropes on the saddle’s horn. Remy nickered a hello to Pondicherry, who eyed the slats of wood behind him warily.
“So I see. You could have called and let me know.”
“I tried, you weren’t at home.”
Mary rolled her eyes and pulled her cell phone from her jeans pocket. “Welcome to the 21st century, John Watson.”
John unwound the ropes from the new post. “Give me one good reason why being in constant touch with the world is a good idea.”
“Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have been waiting for you for the last forty-five minutes.”
John winced.
“Well, five,” admitted Mary. “I spent the first forty getting the old post out. Had to use up Pondi’s excess energy somehow.”
“No wonder he’s tired,” said John, and hefted the new post to the gaping hole in the ground. “Can you hold it steady?”
“You bet,” said Mary, and waited until John had already given the post a few blows with the mallet before talking again. “Saw Doc Hooper circling your property this morning.”
“Ooof,” grunted John as the mallet swung and hit the post. He could feel the vibrations run down his bones and into his shoulder; the original deep tissue massage, he thought, as he swung his arms around for another blow.
“Thought she was looking pretty today,” added Mary.
“Why, Mary,” said John. “Learn something new about you every day.”
Mary leaned over and swatted his leg. “For you, you ninny.”
“She was checking on Calufrax’s eyes, not making eyes at me.”
“She wasn’t prettying herself up for Frax, Watson. And she sure wasn’t going to do it for me.”
John slammed the mallet onto the post again. “See it how you want to.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Have I hit a nerve?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
Mary went quiet and John kept pounding the post into the ground. It was quick work - the ground was hard, but the hole was already fairly deep, it was only a matter of making sure the slightly longer post was even with the existing ones. By the time John had finished, however, he’d broken into a thin sweat. It was too cold to strip his shirt off - and Mary would have made a comment, but he still shed his coat to cool down a little.
Mary still let out a wolf whistle when he took off the coat though. He threw it at her, and she caught it with a laugh.
“That should do it,” said John, breathing heavily, and he spun his arms in circles to keep the muscles loose. His shoulder ached, and his fingers tingled.
“All right?”
“Yeah, need a minute, that’s all,” said John. “I can handle the slats myself, if you want to go on home.”
“It’s no trouble.” Mary kicked the post a few times. “You really knocked this into the ground, didn’t you? You’re stronger than you look.”
John snorted. Wasn’t that the truth.
“Maybe Molly’s on to something,” mused Mary.
“Help me with the slats if you’re going to stay,” said John, and Mary dropped his coat over one of the other posts and helped arranged the slats back into place.
And then she started to hum.
His song.
John gritted his teeth, thought about asking her to stop, and didn’t. Mary was far more perceptive than Molly, who wasn’t exactly a slouch when it came to interpreting other people. She’d figured out it hit a nerve earlier, she just hadn’t questioned it. Mary would question. Mary would want to know about the nerve. And knowing Mary, she’d figure it out.
The last thing John wanted was for Mary to know.
“At least sing something good if you’re going to sing,” said John, trying to sound jovial. He didn’t think he succeeded. “Can’t stand that newfangled not-country on the radio these days.”
“Philistine.”
“Is that what they’re calling it?”
“That’s what I’m calling you.” Mary grinned at him. “Grandpa.”
“Grandpa?”
Mary began to sing. “Oh play me some mountain music, like grandma and grandpa used to play.”
John rolled his eyes and reached for another slat.
He was about to join in on the next verse when Mary switched songs, singing under her breath where he couldn’t quite make out the lyrics, or else it was effort to lift the slats that made her skip a few of the words. Not heavy - not for a girl who’d managed to remove the rotten old post on her own - but long and cumbersome.
But I close my eyes and one more time
We're spinning around and you're holding on tightly
Love song. That’s all country music ever was: lost love, unrequited love, new love, old love. And of all people in the world, John Watson had no business writing it.
The words came out, I kissed your mouth
No Fourth of July has ever burned so brightly
Mary struggled with the last slat of wood, but didn’t back down from it, didn’t ask for a moment to catch her breath. She just stopped singing for a moment as she struggled to hold the weight steady while John shifted into a better position. If they’d been a country song, the two of them right then, he’d be thinking about the sunlight in her hair. Or comparing her to the rock that steadied him, the oak tree that gave him strength.
Except they weren’t. John looked at Mary, and all he saw was…Mary.
The slat slid into place, and Mary let out a relieved sigh. She stepped away and wriggled her fingers appreciatively.
“All right, Grandpa,” said Mary cheerfully, a bit out of breath from exertion. John pulled the water bottles out of Remy’s saddlebags and tossed Mary one. “Thanks. I think it’s good, don’t you?”
“The music, yes. The fence, it’ll do.”
“You just don’t like anything recorded after 1985.”
“I don’t like anything recorded by someone who doesn’t wear a cowboy hat.”
“Johnny Cash played with Elvis,” said Mary smugly, and John glared at her. “The last musician I idolized wore a hat. You know what happened when he took it off? He was bald and called himself Chris Gaines. If you can’t be country without the hat, you weren’t country in the first place anyway.”
John rolled his eyes and drank down half the bottle of water. He didn’t want to give Mary the satisfaction of agreeing with her.
“If you’re done with me,” said Mary, and John tipped his hat for an answer. “I’ll be off. Take care where you leave your hat, cowboy.”
“That’s Grandpa cowboy to you,” countered John, and Mary’s laughed sailed back on the wind as she galloped away, the dust rising in a cloud behind her.
John watched until all he could see was the dust.
The words came unbidden, rising in his mind so complete, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t heard them somewhere before.
Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I
Shouldn’t I love you?
“Damn,” he said softly, and sat down on the grass near Remy. The notebook and pencil fit snugly into his hands, and he started to scratch out the words as they kept coming.
I’ve been bleeding in the dark and the dead of night
I’ve been praying for a miracle when the time was right
I’ve been looking for an angel who could light my way
You’re everything I hoped to find, but I look at you and say...
Couldn’t I, couldn’t I, couldn’t I
Couldn’t I love you?
Shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I, shouldn’t I
Shouldn’t I love you?
Loving you would be so right
So why can’t, why can’t, why can’t
Why can’t I love you?
You would be so good for me.
Chapter Three