Fic: A Fiddle in the Band (3/?)
Title: A Fiddle in the Band (2/?)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Eventual John/Sherlock, OMC (Ned Turner)
Warnings: Country Music
Rating: PG
Summary: John Watson writes country western music. Sherlock Holmes sings it.
A/N: First, I must offer belated thanks to estalita_11 for her advice regarding horses in Chapter Two. My A/N was so lengthy that I thought it was in there, I only now realized it was not, and I apologize for the omission. (This shall teach me to stay away from lengthy A/Ns.)
Chapter Title is a reference to Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. I don’t quote the lyrics, because frankly I think we all know them, but I’d like to think you’ll all recognize it in the chapter that follows, anyway.
Chapters One ~ Two
Chapter Three: The Gambler
“It’s a forty-day tour, twenty-two cities, twenty-four shows. Starts off in Phoenix and ends up in Mobile; Tricia Yearwood is headlining, so there’s going to be a good draw of folks who’d like as not end up buying the album. And she wants you to play fiddle with her for a few sets. May through the end of July, with breaks for the CMA Festival and Fourth of July. No-one’s signed you for the Fourth yet but there’s still time…Sherlock, are you listening t’me?”
“There is a certain irony in signing a British musician to play at a festival celebrating independence from the United Kingdom,” said Sherlock Holmes, stretched out on the threadbare and stained sofa in the hideous little green room. He reached up to peel another strip of paint from the concrete wall and examined the dull shade of orange. “Who paints a green room orange?”
“Pay attention,” said the man across the room. His Southern accent was exaggerated, partially from how he’d been raised to talk, partially out of sheer defiance to how everyone around him spoke. Watching people react to it was one of Sherlock’s tests. Those who were soothed and amused weren’t worth the trouble. Those who were set on edge, however…. “I’m trying to have a conversation about your career.”
“I don’t see why I need to be involved.”
“It’s your career.”
“You want to send me on a tour; you assume I will protest and say that I do not tour. You are correct. We will argue and you will storm out of the room and tomorrow you will return and we’ll not discuss it again and this will continue for a week until you finally threaten me with invalidating my visa to remain in this blasted country, in which case I will sulkily sign whatever papers you put before me. As games of chance go, you’re playing a rather dangerous one, but one could argue that signing me to a contract at all is rather chancy, so perhaps you just like the thrill of it. You are, however, more confident of your success this time.”
“You’ve refused three tours already this summer; why would you sign this one?”
“Because this time, once I’ve signed the touring contract, you intend to give me the folder of songs you’ve got in your briefcase. Bribery is the lowest form of coercion, Turner.”
“There ain’t no songs in my briefcase, Sherlock. And no one said they were for you, anyhow.”
“Of course they are. You normally leave the case on the floor by your chair, and today it’s been sitting on the table, never out of your sight for more than a second or two. Clearly there is something important in the case. It’s been well over three months since you’ve brought me anything from the lonely cowherd in Oklahoma, and considering you’ve just gone rather stiff, and you glanced yet again at your briefcase, I’m going to assume the sheath of songs in your briefcase is from him, and therefore, for me. I’m bored. A tour will hardly improve matters.”
Ned Turner burst into laughter, slapping his knee and doubling over. Sherlock remained passive on the sofa, and looked at him out of the corner of his eye disdainfully.
“Shee-yout, Sherlock. I should sign you up for the circus, not the touring circuit. I’d think a tour would be exactly what you needed. New places, new faces, all beggin’ for you to dissect ‘em.”
Sherlock snorted. “Dull.”
“Yearwood has a good show. Lots of pretty girls looking up adoringly, if that’s your thing. Plenty of action.”
Sherlock pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling.
Turner sighed heavily and began to get to his feet. “Fine, have it your way. Hudson ain’t gonna be pleased, he reckoned you were a sure thing-”
Sherlock closed his eyes and his entire body tensed. When his eyes sprang back open, the entire room seemed a little bit brighter, less in focus.
“Who?”
“Archibald Hudson. Tour manager, he’s the one what rung me up a few days ago askin’ for you. Said he reckoned you were a big enough name to tour with the big boys. Well, girls in this case. But I can tell him-”
“Give me the blasted touring contracts so I can sign them and you can give me the sheet music, please.”
Ned Turner’s mouth dropped open in shock before he snapped it right back up and continued as if he’d actually expected Sherlock to sign all along. “Right you are,” said Turner, and opened the briefcase with a snap. “What changed your mind? So’s I can use it next time, see.”
Sherlock didn’t answer. The thick stack of papers fell on the coffee table with a slap; Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. He picked them up and scanned through them quickly. “There’s a stop in Tulsa.”
“Yep. Also Austin and Dallas and Albuquerque.”
Sherlock set the papers down on the table and took the pen Turner handed him. He scrawled his name at the bottom of the page and lobbed the pen back to Turner as he lay back on the sofa. Turner tried to grab the pen, missed, and twisted in his chair to retrieve it from the floor. It only took a moment; it was long enough. By the time Turner had straightened and turned around, Sherlock was already back on the sofa, thumbing through the sheet music.
“Sherlock, were you in my briefcase?”
“Why? Something in there you don’t want me to see?” Sherlock frowned at the song sheets. “This one’s rubbish.”
“No one’s forcing you to sing it,” said Turner reasonably, and he closed the briefcase with a click. “The band is back in five.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and turned the pages to the next song.
Turner watched him for a moment. “You aren’t even excited, are you? Starting your first big tour, and you can’t even crack a smile? What would that friend of yours - Victor, that right? What would he say, if he were here?”
Sherlock didn’t look up from the pages, but his eyes stopped scanning the words. “Something along the lines of, ‘Oh good, I’m not dead’, I suspect.”
Turner shook his head as he picked up his case. “You’re a cold fish, Sherlock Holmes. Lucky for you this tour don’t see your true colors showing a mile away.”
Sherlock tracked Turner out of the room, and just as the door closed, spoke. “Yes,” he said quietly, but not so quietly that Turner wouldn’t have heard if he’d been listening, “I quite agree.”
*
The tour would be intolerable, but the waiting would be worse, particularly since there was little chance of seeing Archibald Hudson in between the then and now. Sherlock could only bide his time and wait.
The sheath of songs from the Oklahoma cowherd was largely terrible. One or two were passable, and Sherlock worked on them in the dark hours. Arranged on a piano where the higher registers were somewhat out of tune and therefore little used, written in pencil then recopied in blue ink. Coffee, not tea. Strawberry jam, but not often. No experience with other instruments, perhaps a fleeting affair with a clarinet, but not enough to write accompanying music, and Sherlock spent the better part of his time adding to the songs, deepening the melodies and composing the harmonies.
The music didn’t matter, so much as the challenge of taking a single sheet and turning it into a full-fledged composition, start to finish, a story in three minutes or less. He wrapped himself in the notes, tapped the beat with his feet and closed his eyes as he drew his bow across the violin - fiddle, in the moments when he played for others, but when it was himself, the music changed, lost the twang of the country and gained the sweet, smooth notes of a concerto.
Playing alone was dangerous; better to play with company. It reminded of Sherlock who he was now. When he was alone, playing Wagner or Mozart or Handel, too much of the man he used to be would creep in, the slow sweet notes clinging to the strings, the soft sweet scent of cocaine on his fingers, the languid flow of his blood in his veins, voices and noises drawn out into a blessedly foggy lullaby. Everything in the world stretched out but still thick and pliable. Delicious.
Too dangerous, those nights when he played alone. He lost himself in the music, played and pretended that he was who he was, not who he pretended to be.
Sherlock couldn’t afford to forget. And so he worked on the few songs that showed promise, composed the music for the bass guitar and the steel guitar, the drums and the banjo. He added harmony to the piano score, created playful interludes where the instruments could rise together and fall apart again, and only when that was nearly complete did he turn to the blanks he’d left for the fiddle, take up his instrument and start to compose again. The music had been swirling in his head already, the notes changing shape and growing stronger; now it was time to play it out and see how it sounded in the cold light of day.
Sherlock closed his eyes, set the violin under his chin. For a moment, he stood still in the cold sunlight streaming in through the windows.
And then his arm began to move, his fingers danced across the strings. He waved and twisted, growing faster with repetition, as what might have been slow and methodical turned into a twirling speed of sound. He played twice through, changing notes slightly as he went, and only on the third iteration did he stop playing to scribble the notes down on the paper, rapid-fire, before returning to play the next bar. Back and forth, pencil to bow and back again, bobbing up and down and never still for more than it took to draw a note from the strings.
Composing the score for the other instruments could take several days. Composing for the fiddle was a matter of hours, and by nightfall, it was complete.
Sherlock played it one more time, start to finish, making tiny minute changes, before turning the pages over on the music stand. Finished.
And then he played it again, slowly now, no longer a fiddle but a violin, the music drawing out in time and in the moonlight that now shone through the windows, as he played himself through the dangerous night.
*
Three days, he’d spent composing the first song. Another two, composing the second. It was child’s play, really - the cowherd might have been sleeping as he’d written it, or maybe had just eaten an entire tub of ice cream. It was saccharine sweet, rather disgustingly so, but it was better than nothing, particularly since the December weather had turned, and the snow was blowing from all directions.
London did not have such snow. Sherlock glared at the storm outside the window; he was trapped in the little furnished flat - no, apartment, here in the States - that Turner had rented for him in Nashville. Tan wall-to-wall carpeting, linoleum flooring in the bath and kitchenette. Off-white walls accented with fancy light fixtures and cheap light bulbs, colorful mass-market nonsense prints on the walls. And, because it was Nashville and the apartment complex knew their market, an extremely fancy stereo in one corner, and soundproof walls, as well as plenty of space by the window for setting up music stands and whatever instrument the occupant wanted.
It was boring and plain and half the time, Sherlock thought he was back in the rehab facility, and he’d wake up wanting to scream.
The storm had been raging nearly as long as Sherlock had been working on the third song that he’d deemed nearly worth his time. A ridiculous little story-song that looked better than it sounded. The lines didn’t scan, the rhymes didn’t match, nothing Sherlock tried with the music worked, and when the phone rang at the height of his frustration, Sherlock didn’t even bother to answer politely.
“I need his telephone number,” he barked into the phone before saying anything else.
There was a pause. “Sherlock?” asked Turner, clearly confused.
“Yes, of course it’s me, Turner, who else would be answering my phone?” snapped Sherlock.
“How did you know it was me? You don’t have Caller ID.”
“I don’t need Caller ID; who else is going to call me here? His number, Turner, I want it, I need it, get it for me.”
“Whose number?”
“The cowherd’s number, Turner. He’s written the wrong music for this song, and I want to find out if he’s completely insane or just mildly depressed.”
“I can find out but it could take a few days.”
“Do it,” snapped Sherlock, and slammed the phone back down.
The phone began to ring again almost immediately. Turner, of course, but not with the phone number, because he couldn’t possibly have gotten it that quickly. Sherlock picked up the receiver and dropped it back down on the hook, where it clanged noisily. He grabbed his coat and scarf and swirled out of the apartment before the phone had a chance to ring again. There was a cigarette machine in the lobby of the complex, and a small lee where the wind wouldn’t put out the dozen or so cigarettes it would take for Turner to find the cowherd’s phone number.
Sherlock waited out the interminable elevator ride to the lobby, his foot tapping an uneven beat, and then bought his cigarettes with steady hands. There was no one around - mid-morning, people would be working, of course, doing their everyday jobs with everyday efficiency and everyday habits. Sherlock slipped into the lee just outside the loading dock doors, and pulled out his lighter and the pack of cigarettes, tapping them twice against his hip before pulling out a thin stick.
The snow was particularly heavy for Nashville, enough that people were taking precautionary measures, but not so much that Sherlock was willing to put much credence in it still being on the ground in two days. Barely enough to call it a snowstorm; anyone who knew better wouldn’t have been calling for school closures (school buses full of children on the roads at 10am), or for shoppers to buy extra milk and toilet paper (woman on the pavement struggling with large packages of both). In London, they would have glanced out the windows, shrugged, and kept on doing whatever needed to be done.
London. Sherlock thought longingly, briefly, of comfortable, crowded city streets, thick with car exhaust and annoying tourists, and looked at the comparatively empty sidewalks of Nashville with its relatively clean air, and felt sick.
Or maybe that was the cigarette, smoked to a pinprick, and Sherlock dropped what remained on the ground and crushed it under his shoe.
The flakes fell in flurries around him, mocking and dancing just out of reach. The cigarette hadn’t been enough to calm his mind, not in the slightest, but perhaps it’d taken enough time…
Sherlock went back to his apartment. The answerphone blinked at him, and Sherlock stabbed at the play button.
“Sherlock, it’s Ned Turner. Pick up the phone, I know you’re there. I have a phone number and an address for John Watson. This ain’t usually how it works, you’re supposed to go through me and his agent, not contact him directly. Are you there? Maybe not. Well, here’s the number.”
Sherlock memorized the number instantly and picked up the phone before Turner had even stopped speaking. He dialed and listened, foot tapping impatiently, as the line began to ring.
And ring.
And ring.
After three minutes of solid ringing, and no answer of any kind, Sherlock slammed the phone back down. He paced the room angrily for a moment, and then went back to try again.
Three minutes.
Four minutes.
Somewhere around the six minute mark, Sherlock turned the phone to speaker, and went to tune his violin.
Around the twelve minute mark, he started to rustle around in the kitchenette, looking for something which might boil water.
Around the twenty minute mark, he realized he didn’t have any tea anyway.
At twenty five minutes of solid ringing, and no answer, Sherlock hung the phone back up, and threw it at the wall.
And then he sat down, and began to write.
*
John Watson,
Fix your telephone line. I realize you have a certain anathema against such modern conveniences as a mobile phone or a computer with internet access, but surely even you realize that having a telephone line is less convenience than it is a necessity, particularly since you live in such a remote location that easily obtaining assistance in a dire emergency would be difficult to attain without a means of contacting local services.
Conversation is required regarding your song. The notes do not scan properly and I question whether or not you were actually sober at the time of its writing. You are attempting to write a ballad; your analysis has been sound to date, but I believe the song has a note of anger in it which ought to be extrapolated and is deserving of the primary melodic focus. There is merit in the song or I wouldn’t bother. I must speak with you. Fix your phone line.
Sherlock Holmes
*
Dear Mr Holmes,
How did you know my telephone line wasn’t working properly? And that I don’t have a cell phone or an email address? And which song are you talking about? Mike said you’ve got half a dozen at least.
I’m always sober.
John Watson
*
John,
The phone rang out for twenty-five minutes without anyone answering. That is plenty of time for anyone within hearing distance to reach the phone and pick it up, so I can assume you didn’t hear it. However, you live in a remote area working with animals that require you to be outside for great lengths of time; as such, it would be illogical for you not to have an answering device of some kind, and you are a logical man. Had the phone been ringing and you not heard it, any device would have picked up after four or six rings automatically, even if the ringer itself was not working. As no machine picked up, I can assume the problem lay not in the ringer but the line itself.
You have not said if you fixed the problem, and when I tested your phone line just now, it reached twelve rings, meaning your line is still not fixed.
You are clearly an intelligent man, though I wonder about your wanting to hide away on an isolated farm in the middle of Oklahoma. Are horses better companions than humans? I have little experiences with horses, but plenty with humans, and I can confirm that the latter are a ridiculous species a majority of the time.
You don’t have a mobile phone or an internet connection because you believe that you want to be left alone, and such things would make it easier to contact you. I should add that this is not actually true, that you want to be left alone. In fact, you are extremely lonely and desperately crave contact, but believe you don’t deserve it. Ridiculous, John. Fix your phone line.
I’m talking about the love song. If you are always sober, that would likely be your problem. Country music is best sung slightly inebriated, I’ve found. And call me Sherlock.
SH
*
John,
It has been a week since my last letter. Was it lost in the mail?
SH
*
Sherlock,
I’ve been in shock, you git. How did you know all that? Have we met before? Did you look me up? You’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you?
The love song. They’re all love songs. And by their definition, they’re meant to be sung a little slower, not all hard rockabilly whatever goddamn fool thing you want to do with it. If you don’t like how it’s written you sure don’t have to sing it. You’ve got the number three song in the country now, you can pick and choose them.
And maybe I don’t want anyone contacting me, did you think of that? Horses might not be people, but at least they don’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.
John
*
John,
I’ve angered you. How very interesting. Here I thought you were some boring cowpoke and it turns out you rather like a game of chance, don’t you? Because, as you say, I have what is now the second most popular country western song in the country at the moment (which is, as you do not mention, of your own writing) and yet you are arguing with me in what I can only assume is an attempt to tell me to piss off and never sing another song of yours again.
I just checked with my manager. You receive residuals for every song of yours I choose to sing, when I sing it - so there is profit to be had in not angering me. Therefore I can only assume that you either have no use for the money, or you enjoy the thrill of possibly losing your income. How long have you been aware of your gambling habit, John?
No, we have never met. I couldn’t look you up if I tried; there are approximately 243 John Watsons in the Midwestern states alone, and while I’m sure I could determine which is you by cataloging them, I’d rather not waste time in that endeavor just for a parlor trick, particularly when I can read everything I need to know by your words, your typewriter, and your songs.
I am referring to the love song that is not a love song so much as it is a wishing for love song.
SH
*
John,
I’m still waiting for an answer, John. This song of yours is slowly driving me mad. I tried to sing it the way you’d written the notes and it sounded unbearably horrific. I believe a cat sitting outside the window died in out of sheer pique.
You are typing on a manual typewriter, circa 1974. The ink cartridge is fairly new, leading me to think you can either manufacture them yourself, or someone purchased them in bulk the last time they were for sale, which was at least twenty years ago if not more. You yourself cannot be more than forty (my best guess is thirty-seven, though I’ll allow for two years error in either direction). Therefore, since I doubt you were so forward-thinking as a young adult, the typewriter belonged to a deceased relative. Why deceased? Because you live alone, and if you have their typewriter, they have no need for it. Also, a typewriter in this day and age is an old person’s machine. Therefore, it belonged to someone else before it belonged to you. An inheritance, perhaps the only one received, because surely if you had found yourself in money you would have spent it on a laptop.
SH
*
John,
Have the horses run you over? Are you lying broken and bleeding out in the fields? No, of course not, there are vultures in Oklahoma, aren’t there? They would have picked your bones clean by now. Horses being vegetarian, they’d just wait for the grass to grow under your bones; blood and viscera make excellent fertilizer.
Something you cannot do with a typewriter, John, is plug an address into a search engine, and have it locate the address on a map. You do live in the middle of nowhere. It’s conceivable that you have died, and no one has noticed yet. What happens to the copyright on your songs when you die, John? Have you determined who will control them? Perhaps I should assume the worst, and send them a note instead.
The love song, John. I need new music for the love song.
SH
*
John,
You persist in not answering. You will find I am equally persistent. I am recording a series of songs next week; your ridiculous love song is meant to be one of them, and if you do not wish me to butcher it, you’ll be there to assist. There is a ticket enclosed with this letter; please use it if convenient. If not convenient, use it anyway. A song’s success is at stake, John.
SH
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Eventual John/Sherlock, OMC (Ned Turner)
Warnings: Country Music
Rating: PG
Summary: John Watson writes country western music. Sherlock Holmes sings it.
A/N: First, I must offer belated thanks to estalita_11 for her advice regarding horses in Chapter Two. My A/N was so lengthy that I thought it was in there, I only now realized it was not, and I apologize for the omission. (This shall teach me to stay away from lengthy A/Ns.)
Chapter Title is a reference to Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. I don’t quote the lyrics, because frankly I think we all know them, but I’d like to think you’ll all recognize it in the chapter that follows, anyway.
Chapters One ~ Two
Chapter Three: The Gambler
“It’s a forty-day tour, twenty-two cities, twenty-four shows. Starts off in Phoenix and ends up in Mobile; Tricia Yearwood is headlining, so there’s going to be a good draw of folks who’d like as not end up buying the album. And she wants you to play fiddle with her for a few sets. May through the end of July, with breaks for the CMA Festival and Fourth of July. No-one’s signed you for the Fourth yet but there’s still time…Sherlock, are you listening t’me?”
“There is a certain irony in signing a British musician to play at a festival celebrating independence from the United Kingdom,” said Sherlock Holmes, stretched out on the threadbare and stained sofa in the hideous little green room. He reached up to peel another strip of paint from the concrete wall and examined the dull shade of orange. “Who paints a green room orange?”
“Pay attention,” said the man across the room. His Southern accent was exaggerated, partially from how he’d been raised to talk, partially out of sheer defiance to how everyone around him spoke. Watching people react to it was one of Sherlock’s tests. Those who were soothed and amused weren’t worth the trouble. Those who were set on edge, however…. “I’m trying to have a conversation about your career.”
“I don’t see why I need to be involved.”
“It’s your career.”
“You want to send me on a tour; you assume I will protest and say that I do not tour. You are correct. We will argue and you will storm out of the room and tomorrow you will return and we’ll not discuss it again and this will continue for a week until you finally threaten me with invalidating my visa to remain in this blasted country, in which case I will sulkily sign whatever papers you put before me. As games of chance go, you’re playing a rather dangerous one, but one could argue that signing me to a contract at all is rather chancy, so perhaps you just like the thrill of it. You are, however, more confident of your success this time.”
“You’ve refused three tours already this summer; why would you sign this one?”
“Because this time, once I’ve signed the touring contract, you intend to give me the folder of songs you’ve got in your briefcase. Bribery is the lowest form of coercion, Turner.”
“There ain’t no songs in my briefcase, Sherlock. And no one said they were for you, anyhow.”
“Of course they are. You normally leave the case on the floor by your chair, and today it’s been sitting on the table, never out of your sight for more than a second or two. Clearly there is something important in the case. It’s been well over three months since you’ve brought me anything from the lonely cowherd in Oklahoma, and considering you’ve just gone rather stiff, and you glanced yet again at your briefcase, I’m going to assume the sheath of songs in your briefcase is from him, and therefore, for me. I’m bored. A tour will hardly improve matters.”
Ned Turner burst into laughter, slapping his knee and doubling over. Sherlock remained passive on the sofa, and looked at him out of the corner of his eye disdainfully.
“Shee-yout, Sherlock. I should sign you up for the circus, not the touring circuit. I’d think a tour would be exactly what you needed. New places, new faces, all beggin’ for you to dissect ‘em.”
Sherlock snorted. “Dull.”
“Yearwood has a good show. Lots of pretty girls looking up adoringly, if that’s your thing. Plenty of action.”
Sherlock pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling.
Turner sighed heavily and began to get to his feet. “Fine, have it your way. Hudson ain’t gonna be pleased, he reckoned you were a sure thing-”
Sherlock closed his eyes and his entire body tensed. When his eyes sprang back open, the entire room seemed a little bit brighter, less in focus.
“Who?”
“Archibald Hudson. Tour manager, he’s the one what rung me up a few days ago askin’ for you. Said he reckoned you were a big enough name to tour with the big boys. Well, girls in this case. But I can tell him-”
“Give me the blasted touring contracts so I can sign them and you can give me the sheet music, please.”
Ned Turner’s mouth dropped open in shock before he snapped it right back up and continued as if he’d actually expected Sherlock to sign all along. “Right you are,” said Turner, and opened the briefcase with a snap. “What changed your mind? So’s I can use it next time, see.”
Sherlock didn’t answer. The thick stack of papers fell on the coffee table with a slap; Sherlock swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. He picked them up and scanned through them quickly. “There’s a stop in Tulsa.”
“Yep. Also Austin and Dallas and Albuquerque.”
Sherlock set the papers down on the table and took the pen Turner handed him. He scrawled his name at the bottom of the page and lobbed the pen back to Turner as he lay back on the sofa. Turner tried to grab the pen, missed, and twisted in his chair to retrieve it from the floor. It only took a moment; it was long enough. By the time Turner had straightened and turned around, Sherlock was already back on the sofa, thumbing through the sheet music.
“Sherlock, were you in my briefcase?”
“Why? Something in there you don’t want me to see?” Sherlock frowned at the song sheets. “This one’s rubbish.”
“No one’s forcing you to sing it,” said Turner reasonably, and he closed the briefcase with a click. “The band is back in five.”
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, and turned the pages to the next song.
Turner watched him for a moment. “You aren’t even excited, are you? Starting your first big tour, and you can’t even crack a smile? What would that friend of yours - Victor, that right? What would he say, if he were here?”
Sherlock didn’t look up from the pages, but his eyes stopped scanning the words. “Something along the lines of, ‘Oh good, I’m not dead’, I suspect.”
Turner shook his head as he picked up his case. “You’re a cold fish, Sherlock Holmes. Lucky for you this tour don’t see your true colors showing a mile away.”
Sherlock tracked Turner out of the room, and just as the door closed, spoke. “Yes,” he said quietly, but not so quietly that Turner wouldn’t have heard if he’d been listening, “I quite agree.”
*
The tour would be intolerable, but the waiting would be worse, particularly since there was little chance of seeing Archibald Hudson in between the then and now. Sherlock could only bide his time and wait.
The sheath of songs from the Oklahoma cowherd was largely terrible. One or two were passable, and Sherlock worked on them in the dark hours. Arranged on a piano where the higher registers were somewhat out of tune and therefore little used, written in pencil then recopied in blue ink. Coffee, not tea. Strawberry jam, but not often. No experience with other instruments, perhaps a fleeting affair with a clarinet, but not enough to write accompanying music, and Sherlock spent the better part of his time adding to the songs, deepening the melodies and composing the harmonies.
The music didn’t matter, so much as the challenge of taking a single sheet and turning it into a full-fledged composition, start to finish, a story in three minutes or less. He wrapped himself in the notes, tapped the beat with his feet and closed his eyes as he drew his bow across the violin - fiddle, in the moments when he played for others, but when it was himself, the music changed, lost the twang of the country and gained the sweet, smooth notes of a concerto.
Playing alone was dangerous; better to play with company. It reminded of Sherlock who he was now. When he was alone, playing Wagner or Mozart or Handel, too much of the man he used to be would creep in, the slow sweet notes clinging to the strings, the soft sweet scent of cocaine on his fingers, the languid flow of his blood in his veins, voices and noises drawn out into a blessedly foggy lullaby. Everything in the world stretched out but still thick and pliable. Delicious.
Too dangerous, those nights when he played alone. He lost himself in the music, played and pretended that he was who he was, not who he pretended to be.
Sherlock couldn’t afford to forget. And so he worked on the few songs that showed promise, composed the music for the bass guitar and the steel guitar, the drums and the banjo. He added harmony to the piano score, created playful interludes where the instruments could rise together and fall apart again, and only when that was nearly complete did he turn to the blanks he’d left for the fiddle, take up his instrument and start to compose again. The music had been swirling in his head already, the notes changing shape and growing stronger; now it was time to play it out and see how it sounded in the cold light of day.
Sherlock closed his eyes, set the violin under his chin. For a moment, he stood still in the cold sunlight streaming in through the windows.
And then his arm began to move, his fingers danced across the strings. He waved and twisted, growing faster with repetition, as what might have been slow and methodical turned into a twirling speed of sound. He played twice through, changing notes slightly as he went, and only on the third iteration did he stop playing to scribble the notes down on the paper, rapid-fire, before returning to play the next bar. Back and forth, pencil to bow and back again, bobbing up and down and never still for more than it took to draw a note from the strings.
Composing the score for the other instruments could take several days. Composing for the fiddle was a matter of hours, and by nightfall, it was complete.
Sherlock played it one more time, start to finish, making tiny minute changes, before turning the pages over on the music stand. Finished.
And then he played it again, slowly now, no longer a fiddle but a violin, the music drawing out in time and in the moonlight that now shone through the windows, as he played himself through the dangerous night.
*
Three days, he’d spent composing the first song. Another two, composing the second. It was child’s play, really - the cowherd might have been sleeping as he’d written it, or maybe had just eaten an entire tub of ice cream. It was saccharine sweet, rather disgustingly so, but it was better than nothing, particularly since the December weather had turned, and the snow was blowing from all directions.
London did not have such snow. Sherlock glared at the storm outside the window; he was trapped in the little furnished flat - no, apartment, here in the States - that Turner had rented for him in Nashville. Tan wall-to-wall carpeting, linoleum flooring in the bath and kitchenette. Off-white walls accented with fancy light fixtures and cheap light bulbs, colorful mass-market nonsense prints on the walls. And, because it was Nashville and the apartment complex knew their market, an extremely fancy stereo in one corner, and soundproof walls, as well as plenty of space by the window for setting up music stands and whatever instrument the occupant wanted.
It was boring and plain and half the time, Sherlock thought he was back in the rehab facility, and he’d wake up wanting to scream.
The storm had been raging nearly as long as Sherlock had been working on the third song that he’d deemed nearly worth his time. A ridiculous little story-song that looked better than it sounded. The lines didn’t scan, the rhymes didn’t match, nothing Sherlock tried with the music worked, and when the phone rang at the height of his frustration, Sherlock didn’t even bother to answer politely.
“I need his telephone number,” he barked into the phone before saying anything else.
There was a pause. “Sherlock?” asked Turner, clearly confused.
“Yes, of course it’s me, Turner, who else would be answering my phone?” snapped Sherlock.
“How did you know it was me? You don’t have Caller ID.”
“I don’t need Caller ID; who else is going to call me here? His number, Turner, I want it, I need it, get it for me.”
“Whose number?”
“The cowherd’s number, Turner. He’s written the wrong music for this song, and I want to find out if he’s completely insane or just mildly depressed.”
“I can find out but it could take a few days.”
“Do it,” snapped Sherlock, and slammed the phone back down.
The phone began to ring again almost immediately. Turner, of course, but not with the phone number, because he couldn’t possibly have gotten it that quickly. Sherlock picked up the receiver and dropped it back down on the hook, where it clanged noisily. He grabbed his coat and scarf and swirled out of the apartment before the phone had a chance to ring again. There was a cigarette machine in the lobby of the complex, and a small lee where the wind wouldn’t put out the dozen or so cigarettes it would take for Turner to find the cowherd’s phone number.
Sherlock waited out the interminable elevator ride to the lobby, his foot tapping an uneven beat, and then bought his cigarettes with steady hands. There was no one around - mid-morning, people would be working, of course, doing their everyday jobs with everyday efficiency and everyday habits. Sherlock slipped into the lee just outside the loading dock doors, and pulled out his lighter and the pack of cigarettes, tapping them twice against his hip before pulling out a thin stick.
The snow was particularly heavy for Nashville, enough that people were taking precautionary measures, but not so much that Sherlock was willing to put much credence in it still being on the ground in two days. Barely enough to call it a snowstorm; anyone who knew better wouldn’t have been calling for school closures (school buses full of children on the roads at 10am), or for shoppers to buy extra milk and toilet paper (woman on the pavement struggling with large packages of both). In London, they would have glanced out the windows, shrugged, and kept on doing whatever needed to be done.
London. Sherlock thought longingly, briefly, of comfortable, crowded city streets, thick with car exhaust and annoying tourists, and looked at the comparatively empty sidewalks of Nashville with its relatively clean air, and felt sick.
Or maybe that was the cigarette, smoked to a pinprick, and Sherlock dropped what remained on the ground and crushed it under his shoe.
The flakes fell in flurries around him, mocking and dancing just out of reach. The cigarette hadn’t been enough to calm his mind, not in the slightest, but perhaps it’d taken enough time…
Sherlock went back to his apartment. The answerphone blinked at him, and Sherlock stabbed at the play button.
“Sherlock, it’s Ned Turner. Pick up the phone, I know you’re there. I have a phone number and an address for John Watson. This ain’t usually how it works, you’re supposed to go through me and his agent, not contact him directly. Are you there? Maybe not. Well, here’s the number.”
Sherlock memorized the number instantly and picked up the phone before Turner had even stopped speaking. He dialed and listened, foot tapping impatiently, as the line began to ring.
And ring.
And ring.
After three minutes of solid ringing, and no answer of any kind, Sherlock slammed the phone back down. He paced the room angrily for a moment, and then went back to try again.
Three minutes.
Four minutes.
Somewhere around the six minute mark, Sherlock turned the phone to speaker, and went to tune his violin.
Around the twelve minute mark, he started to rustle around in the kitchenette, looking for something which might boil water.
Around the twenty minute mark, he realized he didn’t have any tea anyway.
At twenty five minutes of solid ringing, and no answer, Sherlock hung the phone back up, and threw it at the wall.
And then he sat down, and began to write.
*
John Watson,
Fix your telephone line. I realize you have a certain anathema against such modern conveniences as a mobile phone or a computer with internet access, but surely even you realize that having a telephone line is less convenience than it is a necessity, particularly since you live in such a remote location that easily obtaining assistance in a dire emergency would be difficult to attain without a means of contacting local services.
Conversation is required regarding your song. The notes do not scan properly and I question whether or not you were actually sober at the time of its writing. You are attempting to write a ballad; your analysis has been sound to date, but I believe the song has a note of anger in it which ought to be extrapolated and is deserving of the primary melodic focus. There is merit in the song or I wouldn’t bother. I must speak with you. Fix your phone line.
Sherlock Holmes
*
Dear Mr Holmes,
How did you know my telephone line wasn’t working properly? And that I don’t have a cell phone or an email address? And which song are you talking about? Mike said you’ve got half a dozen at least.
I’m always sober.
John Watson
*
John,
The phone rang out for twenty-five minutes without anyone answering. That is plenty of time for anyone within hearing distance to reach the phone and pick it up, so I can assume you didn’t hear it. However, you live in a remote area working with animals that require you to be outside for great lengths of time; as such, it would be illogical for you not to have an answering device of some kind, and you are a logical man. Had the phone been ringing and you not heard it, any device would have picked up after four or six rings automatically, even if the ringer itself was not working. As no machine picked up, I can assume the problem lay not in the ringer but the line itself.
You have not said if you fixed the problem, and when I tested your phone line just now, it reached twelve rings, meaning your line is still not fixed.
You are clearly an intelligent man, though I wonder about your wanting to hide away on an isolated farm in the middle of Oklahoma. Are horses better companions than humans? I have little experiences with horses, but plenty with humans, and I can confirm that the latter are a ridiculous species a majority of the time.
You don’t have a mobile phone or an internet connection because you believe that you want to be left alone, and such things would make it easier to contact you. I should add that this is not actually true, that you want to be left alone. In fact, you are extremely lonely and desperately crave contact, but believe you don’t deserve it. Ridiculous, John. Fix your phone line.
I’m talking about the love song. If you are always sober, that would likely be your problem. Country music is best sung slightly inebriated, I’ve found. And call me Sherlock.
SH
*
John,
It has been a week since my last letter. Was it lost in the mail?
SH
*
Sherlock,
I’ve been in shock, you git. How did you know all that? Have we met before? Did you look me up? You’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you?
The love song. They’re all love songs. And by their definition, they’re meant to be sung a little slower, not all hard rockabilly whatever goddamn fool thing you want to do with it. If you don’t like how it’s written you sure don’t have to sing it. You’ve got the number three song in the country now, you can pick and choose them.
And maybe I don’t want anyone contacting me, did you think of that? Horses might not be people, but at least they don’t ask questions you don’t want to answer.
John
*
John,
I’ve angered you. How very interesting. Here I thought you were some boring cowpoke and it turns out you rather like a game of chance, don’t you? Because, as you say, I have what is now the second most popular country western song in the country at the moment (which is, as you do not mention, of your own writing) and yet you are arguing with me in what I can only assume is an attempt to tell me to piss off and never sing another song of yours again.
I just checked with my manager. You receive residuals for every song of yours I choose to sing, when I sing it - so there is profit to be had in not angering me. Therefore I can only assume that you either have no use for the money, or you enjoy the thrill of possibly losing your income. How long have you been aware of your gambling habit, John?
No, we have never met. I couldn’t look you up if I tried; there are approximately 243 John Watsons in the Midwestern states alone, and while I’m sure I could determine which is you by cataloging them, I’d rather not waste time in that endeavor just for a parlor trick, particularly when I can read everything I need to know by your words, your typewriter, and your songs.
I am referring to the love song that is not a love song so much as it is a wishing for love song.
SH
*
John,
I’m still waiting for an answer, John. This song of yours is slowly driving me mad. I tried to sing it the way you’d written the notes and it sounded unbearably horrific. I believe a cat sitting outside the window died in out of sheer pique.
You are typing on a manual typewriter, circa 1974. The ink cartridge is fairly new, leading me to think you can either manufacture them yourself, or someone purchased them in bulk the last time they were for sale, which was at least twenty years ago if not more. You yourself cannot be more than forty (my best guess is thirty-seven, though I’ll allow for two years error in either direction). Therefore, since I doubt you were so forward-thinking as a young adult, the typewriter belonged to a deceased relative. Why deceased? Because you live alone, and if you have their typewriter, they have no need for it. Also, a typewriter in this day and age is an old person’s machine. Therefore, it belonged to someone else before it belonged to you. An inheritance, perhaps the only one received, because surely if you had found yourself in money you would have spent it on a laptop.
SH
*
John,
Have the horses run you over? Are you lying broken and bleeding out in the fields? No, of course not, there are vultures in Oklahoma, aren’t there? They would have picked your bones clean by now. Horses being vegetarian, they’d just wait for the grass to grow under your bones; blood and viscera make excellent fertilizer.
Something you cannot do with a typewriter, John, is plug an address into a search engine, and have it locate the address on a map. You do live in the middle of nowhere. It’s conceivable that you have died, and no one has noticed yet. What happens to the copyright on your songs when you die, John? Have you determined who will control them? Perhaps I should assume the worst, and send them a note instead.
The love song, John. I need new music for the love song.
SH
*
John,
You persist in not answering. You will find I am equally persistent. I am recording a series of songs next week; your ridiculous love song is meant to be one of them, and if you do not wish me to butcher it, you’ll be there to assist. There is a ticket enclosed with this letter; please use it if convenient. If not convenient, use it anyway. A song’s success is at stake, John.
SH