Fic: A Fiddle in the Band (4/?)
Title: A Fiddle in the Band (4/?)
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Eventual John/Sherlock, Mary Morstan
Warnings: Country Music
Rating: PG
Summary: John Watson writes country western music. Sherlock Holmes sings it.
A/N: Just so’s we’re all clear - the Mary in this story predates S3, so she doesn’t have the same…well, anything really. Except she probably is pretty good with a gun, though not for the same reasons.
Chapter title and the song quoted at the end from Slaid Cleaves’s Cold and Lonely, which might just be the most depressing country song in the history of the world, and yes, I’m aware that Whiskey Lullaby in on every list known to man. But Cleaves’ song matches the mood in this chapter a bit better. I warn you, it’s so depressing, I was giggling like a maniac as I listened, but I think Richard Harris’s MacArthur Park is brilliant stuff, so YMMV. The other song John thinks about is his own (and was written by me).
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three
Chapter Four: Just Drifting By
The letters remained in a pile where John left them, on the counter next to the fridge. A neat little stack of cream-colored envelopes, his name and address in spiky handwriting.
John meant to throw them away. Every morning he saw the pile, snorted in derision, and resolved to actually do it.
In the meantime, the letters sat and gathered dust, and sometimes instead of dust, they simply gained another letter.
The crisp fall weather turned into brutal winter just before Thanksgiving. John suffered through the motions at Mary’s, where she’d invited half the town, including Doc Molly, who seemed to have found new courage in a new dress, and was determine to use it on talking to him. John listened and nodded and said what he hoped were the right things at the right times. He ate turkey and oyster stuffing, roasted root vegetables and potatoes with gravy, home-made cranberry sauce and green beans and macaroni cheese and didn’t taste a thing, and when he was done, he graciously refused the pumpkin pie because he’d already spent too long from the horses, there was a wind kicking up and he needed to get home before the storm blew in.
The other guests protested and poked gentle fun at his work ethic; none of them seemed terribly upset at his early departure. Horses, after all, were a 24/7 job, and every person there understood and made no move to stop John from going. Mary stood by the door and watched him go, and the next day when he returned to his house after checking the fences, there was half an apple pie waiting for him in his kitchen.
The pile of letters remained untouched. John couldn’t tell if they were quietly mocking, or just quiet. He looked at them and felt a pang of guilt for not answering them, and then a moment later remembered what they actually said, and the anger drove him straight out of the house and into the yard, across the frostbitten grass and the icy gravel into the warm barn, full of horses who didn’t ask questions and pressed their noses into his hand.
He wrote the songs, sure. Didn’t mean he owned them. Not like that. Cocky, self-assured, stuck up Brit kid could do whatever he wanted with them, if he didn’t like ‘em.
The dog waited for him inside the barn. Its brothers were somewhere else, eating their scraps and chow and chasing down rats and the rest, but this one was determined to stay near John. He sat up when John came in, watching him expectantly, and followed John outside, but always at a respectable distance, understanding that John might tolerate him, but didn’t want him all the same. It was only recently that John would look around, and not see the dog, and that little trickle of worry would creep in. But the dog always turned up, eventually.
Frost turned the pale grass white; the clouds hung low over the horizon. Storm coming in, John decided, and went into the shed for the coats. Most of the horses wouldn’t need them, but Calufrax’s owners were skittish, and Pickering was just old. He fixed them up, and led them outside into the pale day, and the horses seemed to pick up just being in the cold air, as if they preferred the grand, frozen outdoors over the warm fug of a covered barn, soft hay for sleeping and warm oats for eating.
Maybe they did, John thought, watching them gallop across the pasture. Remy, in an uncharacteristically spry mood, lay down and rolled, his feet flying ungainly in the air, and the dog seemed to catch on Remy’s suddenly receptive mood, and dashed out from behind John’s legs, through the fencing, and out to meet the horse, all frantically happy barks and wagging tail and flapping ears.
John watched as Remy reached his nose out to give the dog what he imagined was a powerful sniff, and then Remy was up and running again, the dog barking happily behind him. Remy was faster; he’d get fifty feet ahead, and stop, turn his head to look for the dog, practically falling over itself in a desperate attempt to catch up, and as soon as it looked as if the dog might be on him, Remy’d take off again across the pasture.
The dog never stopped, just kept on going, like it was the best game in the world. After a few goes, he did slow down, and sat down, tongue rolling out the side of its mouth, panting hard.
Remy slowed, turned to look at it, and then when he realized the dog wasn’t following, trotted back to him, as if wondering if the game was up.
The moment he was within striking distance, the dog took off in the opposite direction like a shot. Remy stopped in his tracks and snorted, realizing he’d been had.
John, watching all of this play out, laughed. It was creaky and ill-used, and it almost hurt while at the same time, he felt just a tad bit lighter for it. He turned away from the play out on the pasture, closed up the gate, set the latch, and started back to the barn.
The day dragged on in fits and starts - muck out the stalls, sawdust on the manure pile, fresh hay on the floors. John scrubbed out the troughs and refilled them; threw extra sand down on the indoor arena, tackled the mountain of paperwork regarding feed orders and medical charts and all the small and large charges that came with operating a stables, thing he never really had thought about before Murray had offered him the job.
“It’s quiet. It’s out-of-the-way. Not much to do there but take care of the horses.” It had been less advertisement than cautionary tale; Murray had sounded dubious that John would even want to secret himself away from the world. Except it was exactly what John had wanted. Still wanted. Probably would always want, John figured, and when Murray came back from Afghanistan, and John wasn’t needed to manage the stables anymore…well, he’d figure something else out. He’d have experience in the work by then, might be able to find a job somewhere else, remote enough that he didn’t have to think about people, didn’t have to worry about anyone caring too much about him.
Didn’t have to worry about caring too much about them, either.
Two in the afternoon; the mail would have arrived out on the main road. John stretched and felt his stomach rumble. Tea and toast for breakfast, nothing since, and he felt hollow and light. He padded across the house on stocking feet, into the kitchen, where he rummaged about until he found a bit of chicken, bread, mustard, and fixed himself a sandwich. He glanced at the answering machine idly, still a solid number 1, and thought about calling the phone company. Mike had complained again about not being able to ring through, even though John was perfectly able to ring out. And Sherlock in the letters had said…
John left the kitchen, shoved his feet into his boots, and stepped outside before even putting on his coat. The cold air was dry and brutal and served to snap him out of his line of thought. The dog sat up from the pile of blankets on the porch, expectantly watching John, who absently tossed the remainder of the sandwich in the air for him. The dog caught it neatly, and began to chow it down.
“Mail run,” said John, and started the long walk down the lane to the main road. The dog finished off the sandwich and followed.
The ground was frozen beneath John’s feet. The sky was bright blue, not a cloud to be seen, and the sun might have been weak, but it was warm enough on John’s shoulders. He rolled them, testing them out, and was satisfied when they didn’t ache with the motion.
“Hard work, mucking out stalls and reining in horses,” Murray had said, and John hadn’t needed the reminder. It was half the reason he wanted the job. Clearly, it’d paid off; his fingers might ache, sharp shooting pains up his arm in the dead of night, or when the cold was really bad, but that he could walk the half mile down to the road, and back, and still have the energy to bring in the horses and brush down Remy and sweep the floors and all the other countless small things it took to keep the stables running…well, that was a blessing. That was enough.
The thing about hard work, especially when it was routine, was that it was easy to get lost in it, forget anything existed outside of it. It was only in the dead of night, when John woke up for no reasons whatsoever, that he would lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling, and hear the voices echoing in his head, conversations he could forget in the light of day, and in them, he’d say different things, do different things, rewrite history until everything landed the way it ought to have done. Easy to pretend the bed he slept in was the one he remembered from years past, no longer ashes but actuality.
The sunrise would render those dreams into ash themselves, until John was covered in it.
The mailbox was half full of envelopes. Junk mail, flyers from various businesses, the odd catalog or two. John flipped through them while the dog sniffed the ground, clearly on the track of something delicious. A couple for Murray; he’d forward those on. One for Mary which had obviously been accidentally slipped into his pile at the post office; he shoved it into his coat pocket to give her later. He still had the pie plate leftover from Thanksgiving that needed returning, and that had been two months ago. That afternoon was as good a time as any.
A rather thick envelope from Mike - too thick for a royalty check, and it wasn’t the right time of year for renewal of contracts. John ripped it open, and knew the moment his fingers touched the smooth paper, undoubtedly cream-colored, undoubtedly addressed to him, care of his agent.
John cursed under his breath, and pulled it out. Yup. Another one, to add to the pile. And…John frowned, looking at the second page.
An airline reservation?
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.
John snorted and shoved the letter and its damn fool enclosure into his pocket without reading the rest. He turned abruptly back for the house. The dog took another moment, one last longing sniff, before bounding to his side, yipping as if to explain to John what he’d just been doing.
John shoved his hands into his pockets, bent his head down against the wind, and kept going.
*
“Oh, good, I need help with the ladder,” said Mary when John knocked on her door later that day. She spun on her heel and marched back into the house, leaving John to follow her, shedding his coat and boots in the hall. “In the kitchen,” Mary called back.
The house was clearly in a state of flux, with the holidays over, but John could see the boxes of Christmas decorations in the corner, packed safely away for next year, and had no doubt about what Mary had been doing. He padded into the kitchen just in time to catch Mary as she stumbled down the ladder, and the box she’d been carrying went flying.
“Oof,” groaned Mary, and then grinned up at him. “Why, John Watson, I do declare. I never knew you were so strong.”
John snorted, and righted Mary onto her feet. “Most people who ask for help, wait before actually attempting whatever fool thing they’re trying to do.”
“Oh, please, there wasn’t nothing in the box to break, I still have to fill it up. I just lost my balance. Is that my pie plate?”
John nodded. “Unless you know of another apple pie fairy ‘round here.”
“And you even washed it. Strong arms, likes horses, can wash a dish. Think I’ll keep you. Can you help carry all the boxes in the living room up to the attic? The ladder goes out to the barn but you’ve already taken off your boots.”
John set to work. Most of the boxes weren’t terribly heavy but there were quite a few of them, and by the time he was done, John had broken out a sweat. Mary smiled brightly when he reappeared and pushed him toward the table in the kitchen, which she’d laid out with coffee and cake and a sandwich so thick with meat and lettuce and tomatoes that John wasn’t sure his mouth could fit around it.
“Ought to have vegetables or something but I’ve never been great shakes at cooking outside holidays,” confessed Mary.
“You didn’t have to.”
“A ‘course I do, you moved all those boxes for me, didn’t you? And brought back my pie plate.”
“And a letter,” remembered John, and he sat the sandwich back down on the plate. “Mixed up with my mail.”
Mary waved him down. “No, you sit. I’ll get it. In your coat?”
“Yes.”
The sandwich was better than Mary would have had John believe - or maybe he was just hungrier than he’d thought. He was halfway through the second half, with a sizable dent in the bowl of chips Mary had provided, when he realized that Mary hadn’t come back into the kitchen.
“Mary, you get lost in your own house?” he called out, but his voice echoed back at him. He frowned, and hesitated before shoving back in the chair and leaving the sandwich on the plate.
Mary was just turning from his coat hanging in the hall when John spotted her. He thought he could see her hand stuffing something back into his pocket, but wasn’t entirely sure because when she turned, her eyes were bright and her smile was shining, and in her hands she clutched the mis-delivered mail.
“Sorry, you’ve got a lot of pockets in that coat,” she said cheerfully, but John knew how to listen, no matter what Sherlock Holmes might say. He could hear the false note in her voice.
“Three of them,” John said cautiously, and already felt his heart sinking as Mary crossed the floor toward the kitchen.
“Isn’t it funny, how you never find what you’re looking for in the first place you look?” said Mary.
The letter. Sherlock’s letter, and its ridiculous enclosure. Damn.
“It’s always in the last place you expect,” continued Mary.
“Because most people stop looking after they’ve found what they want. Mary-”
Mary waved her hand. “Finish your sandwich?”
“Near enough.”
“Suppose you’ll be leaving, then?” Mary’s voice caught; her entire body stilled for a moment, as if afraid to hear the answer, and then she continued, just as she had before, into the kitchen. John turned slowly and followed her.
“Wasn’t thinking to just yet,” said John cautiously. “Still have to move the ladder.”
Mary nearly threw the leftover sandwich plate into the sink. “The ladder? John Watson, are you having me on? I am not asking about a ladder.”
“Then you’ll have to spell it out for me, Mary, because I had a higher opinion of you than someone who’d look at a person’s private correspondence!”
Mary flushed and turned back to the sink. “I didn’t realize it wasn’t for me until I’d opened it. And then I couldn’t help but wonder why Sherlock Holmes would be writing to me. Except the only thing that makes less sense is why he’d be writing to you, because you don’t even know who he is!”
“I know who he is.”
“Well, of course you do - apparently the man is singing songs you wrote! And now he’s sending you tickets to fly off to Nashville-”
“I’m not going.”
Mary rounded on him again. “What?”
John held up his hands. “Why the hell would I go to Nashville, Mary? Who would take care of the horses?”
“Who would…” echoed Mary blankly, and then she surged toward him, the dishtowel in her hand flying at his head as if it were a whip, punctuating each word with another slap at John’s head. “The horses? This is about the horses? John - Watson - you - are- an - idiot.”
John tried to block the towel from his head, somewhat ineffectively. But then, the towel wasn’t all that good of a weapon as it was. “Hey!”
“A celebrity sends you plane tickets, you go!” shrieked Mary, and dropped the towel on the kitchen floor. “Oh, hell. I’ll go, you stay here with the horses.”
“Mary!” yelled John, and followed her out of the kitchen.
“Oh, don’t protest, shame to let them go to waste. And have you seen the man? He’s the tallest drink of cold water I’ve seen on a hot day since I was three and thought the sun rose and set in Danny Bonaduce. I can sing. Maybe I can help him out.”
John stared at Mary as she went down the hall to the little bedroom he knew was in the back of the house. He could hear her rummaging around in the closet - she couldn’t actually be choosing clothes to pack, could she?
Then he heard a thump, and the spin of wheels, and imagined a little pull-along suitcase. He groaned and let his head fall in his hands. Dammit all to hell if she wasn’t trying to call him out…
Only one thing to do. “Fine,” he called back to her. “Go on and use ‘em. Like you say, shame to let them go to waste.”
A pause, and then heavy footfalls as Mary came back down the hallway. “What?”
“Go ahead,” said John placidly, and he made himself comfortable on the sofa. “I’ve heard you sing, you can carry a tune better’n me. Not sure you’re quite what this Holmes fellow is expecting, but maybe you can fix whatever he thinks is broke.”
Mary stared at him for a moment, and then disappeared down the hallway again. John heard her walk halfway down, and then come storming back out.
“John Watson,” she said, eagle eyes and fists on hips. “You are trying to call my bluff.”
“Nah,” said John. He propped his feet up on the ottoman and rummaged along the side of the chair for a magazine. Entertainment Weekly. “Is this the one with the review of that spy flick?”
“It’s not going to work. I can call and change the name on those tickets. Always wanted to see Nashville. The Grand Ole Opry. Graceland.”
“That’s Memphis.”
Mary kicked the ottoman out from under John’s feet. John glanced at her over the magazine and frowned, but said nothing. Mary stared at him, shaking with annoyance, and then she threw up her hands and collapsed on the sofa nearby.
“I swear, I cannot suss you out, John Watson.”
“Mmm,” said John, and turned a page.
“Anybody with their head on straight would jump at free tickets out of this town and all you can say is, ‘Well, someone has to watch the horses’.” Mary dropped her voice to imitate him in a way that he didn’t think was meant to be flattering.
“It’s true.”
“It’s bull, that’s what it is. You’ve been here near a year without a single day off, and don’t think I haven’t watched men go mad with that kind of schedule. Murray wouldn’t mind if you asked for a few days. Hell, I think he owes ‘em to you - there’s laws about vacation time, and days off, and you ain’t taken none of that.”
“I get plenty of compensation without you looking out for me, Mary.”
“Compensation? What, like burying yourself in a no-name town in the middle of nowhere and ignoring anyone who tries to make friendly with you? That’s compensation?”
“It what I signed up to do, Mary.”
“And I’ve always wondered why.”
“Maybe I couldn’t get anything else.”
Mary went still - too still. John looked at her over the magazine again. “I can hear you thinking from this chair, Mary.”
“I’ve known Bill Murray since we were four years old,” said Mary, low. “And do you know what he said to me, the week after you moved in? ‘Be kind.’ Don’t rightly know what he meant, I’m always kind. But I was fixing to come over and bring food and introduce you to everyone, make sure you knew where you stood and that’s all he said, be kind, as if the kindest thing I could do for you was to leave you alone.”
John had long since stopped reading the magazine. His hand shook, the papers rattling together, and he slammed it down on his lap to stop the noise. “You always ignore what he tells you?”
“I did, though. I let you be, I waited a whole month before I stopped by, and I made sure I had a reason apart from bringing you a pie to welcome you. And I’ve never asked you about your past or your kin or anything that might have brought you here. I’ve left you as alone as I can manage. And I think I know you, John Watson - least, I thought I knew you. Knew you to be a decent man with a strong sense of pride and self-reliance, never wanting to ask for help when you could do it yourself. Never wanting to accept charity or a helping hand when you could make do with what you had. But a good man, under all that. Just wanting your own bit of space. And you’re telling me you don’t deserve more than a day or two to do whatever it is from your past is calling you back?”
“Sherlock Holmes ain’t my past.”
“He’s something to you, I expect.”
“He’s nothing to me.”
“He’s singing music you wrote.” Mary sucked in her breath and sprang to her feet. “It’s you, ain’t it?”
“Mary-“
She was quick, he’d give her that. She was across the room and rummaging in the drawer under the stereo; after a moment, she pulled out a CD, and had opened it quick as anything. She pulled out the booklet and started to scan it before shouting out in glee. “Here. Right here, look at that.”
Mary thrust the booklet under John’s nose.
River Street Torch Song
Words by John Watson
Music by John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
John got to his feet slowly, and walked to the window, still holding the booklet. Just a fold of paper, not much to it, no lyrics printed and very light on the graphics; clearly the production company wasn’t willing to shell out much money for the packaging on a rising star just yet. Only a single photograph of a man in profile, dark silhouette against the light coming in from the barn doors.
He was tall, Mary wasn’t wrong. Tall and lithe, leaning against a post, large hands wrapped around the wood as if he might fall over if he let go. His head was bent forward just a tad, his boots - the high-heeled kind, with the smooth curve to the ankle - were toes-up, heels on the ground. Maybe he’d fallen backwards, caught the post at the exact moment the photographer had snapped the camera. Maybe he was comfortable in that odd position, still and quiet, waiting for the word to spring to action. The dark line of him was sharp against the bright light behind; he couldn’t have been in motion. The wide-brimmed hat hung low on his head, almost ready to fall, and John thought if he did, the man might catch it as smoothly as if it’d been planned from the start.
He wondered, briefly, what that man looked like. He turned the booklet over, thinking his face would surely grace the front, but instead, it was a close-up of the tight curves of a violin against a dark purple velvet background.
Mike had told him the song had been sold, months ago. Second track on a single, John thought he remembered Mike saying. Meaning the artist liked it but didn’t expect it to go much of anywhere.
This is what I ain’t been told
On the day that I grew old
This is how I ain’t been bred
This ain’t the life I should have led…
“I don’t want to know your secrets,” said Mary, somewhere behind him.
“You sure seem intent on asking about them,” said John, but he couldn’t manage to set the booklet down.
“I’m not. Not really. But…” Mary paused. “If Sherlock Holmes ain’t part of your past, he sure seems interested in being part of your future.”
John snorted softly. “I have to get back to the horses.”
“The horses, the horses,” said Mary, wretchedly. “It’s always the horses with you.”
John set the booklet down on the table, but didn’t draw his hand away just yet. “I run a stables, Mary - it can’t be anything but.”
He stepped back, leaving the booklet behind, but the silhouette of the young man was already burned in his memory. The light shining through the curls in his hair, the bridge of his boot, the curve at the back of his knee.
“And that’s what your life is now? Horses, and ignoring letters from Sherlock Holmes? You forget, I know you, John Watson. I think I might know you better than any other person in this entire state.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I’m the only one who knows who you are.”
John shook his head.
“No one else knows you write songs for Sherlock Holmes, do they? Just me. Well, I know those songs, John. I’ve listened to them in the dead of night and I’ve sung them by the light of the day and I’ve watched you over the last year since Bill told me to be kind, and I know you’re running from something, and you say that something isn’t Sherlock Holmes, and I know you cain’t lie so I have to believe you. And whatever you’re running from, it’s terrible, and being here for a year hasn’t lessened the pain I see in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. So I don’t think being here is helping you one bit. And if writing these songs helps - maybe you should forget the horses, and use those tickets and get the hell out of here, and see if Sherlock Holmes don’t help you forget whatever it is brought you here in the first place.”
This is the life was handed me
From rocky shore to stormy sea
I’m bound by choice and sealed by fate
I pray to God it’s not too late
John breathed. In, out. In, out. Behind him, Mary was waiting. He knew what she wanted to hear: for him to capitulate, to agree to go, to make plans for care of the horses. To smile a bit sheepishly, maybe shed a tear or two, to give her a hug and a word of thanks for breaking him free of the prison sentence she felt he’d been serving.
And that’s what it was, what she proposed he’d been doing - serving a prison sentence of sorts, the daily routine of waking up, caring for the horses, going to bed at night, never a day’s break or relief.
“You’re not the judge and jury of me, Mary,” said John, fingers tapping the booklet with Sherlock Holmes’s picture.
“No, of course not,” said Mary. “But you don’t belong here. I’m not sure you ever did.”
“There’s a whole town what would disagree with you.”
“I know. Don’t matter. I’m the one who’s right.”
John chuckled. “I’m not using the tickets.”
Mary exhaled. “You’re a fool, then.”
John shook his head. “No.”
He stepped away from the table, and careful not to look at Mary, walked to the door to pull on his boots.
Mary followed him. “No, you are, John Watson. I don’t…I don’t understand you. You cain’t tell me you want this, to live and die on a horse ranch in the middle of Oklahoma, a footnote in some biography of a country star?”
“Don’t matter. I’m needed here.”
“You’re needed in Nashville!”
“Sherlock Holmes don’t need me.”
“I think he’s already said different!”
“If he knew me, he’d say otherwise.” The boots were on; John fixed up his coat and took his hat from the hooks. “I’ll get your ladder before I go.”
Mary watched him heft the ladder, arms crossed, silent and fuming. John could feel the disapproval weigh him down. He ignored it.
“I never thought it, you know. That you were running from trouble. Least, not in that way.”
“Not the first time you’ve been wrong,” said John, and opened the door.
“It must have been powerful bad, though, to keep you this way. What’d you do, John Watson? Rob a bank? Burn down a schoolhouse?” Mary paused. “Kill someone?”
John paused, halfway across the threshold. It was enough; Mary sucked in a breath.
“No…John, no.”
His voice was gravelly and gruff. “Ladder goes in the barn, you said. I’d thank you to keep whatever you’ve learned about me to yourself.”
“You…it was just words, John. You couldn’t hurt a fly.”
The door closed behind him, and Mary stood at the window to watch John cross the lawn, the ladder tucked under his arm.
*
First, the horses. John went into the stables, fed and watered, collected the horses from the pasture, brushed them down, removed blankets, rewrapped legs and soothed and nickered in response when the horses called to him. He patted their hoses and shoulders, rubbed the places where their bridles chafed, spent time brushing out Remy’s mane and tail, made note of Calufrax’s eyes and finally stood with Bastian, who was jittery and nervous, uneasy with the weather and God knew what else.
“Never you mind, Bastian,” John told the horse, and brushed him down, tip to tail, letting the soothing motion soothe both of them. By the time he was done, Bastian was calmer, quieter, eyes drooping, and John was bone-tired and ready to drop.
The dog waited at the front door. John barely saw it; he went inside and sat heavily on the chair by the coat hooks. The dog, overwhelmed by being inside for perhaps the first time in its entire life, stayed by his side, wiggling, before temptation became too much and he went sniffing every last little thing in the tiny room. John closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the wall behind him.
His head was full of a dull roar, a strange crackling sort of noise, snapping and creaking and breaking with thunder. The static of a radio without a station; the roar of the ocean in the middle of the storm, the moment after lightening has struck. John listened to the noise, and heard the dog whimper with excitement, the soft whisper of it sniffing the bench and the floor and his boots.
John opened his eyes, and slowly reached for the bootjack. He took off his boots one at a time, lined them up next to the bench, and without standing, shrugged off his coat. The leeway was cold without it, but John didn’t hurry; he hung his hat on a peg, and padded into the main house, shutting the door to the freezing little leeway just after the dog slipped through to the main house.
He’d left on the small lamp, but that was all right. The sky was near dark, and it was better than coming back to a pitch-black house. The dog kept sniffing, tail wagging like mad, and John walked through to the kitchen. Creaks and groans as he crossed the floorboards, the sniff of the dog as he found a particularly delicious spot of air, the gentle tinkling of the glasses lined up in the china cupboard, placed a bit too closely together.
John stood in the kitchen, and realized he wasn’t hungry. The room was dark, cold, entirely unwelcoming. John pulled the envelope from Sherlock Holmes out of his pocket, and felt the thick contents. The letter, and the confirmation codes for the flights he’d intended John to take.
John dropped the envelope on the pile, and left the kitchen again.
The dog had finished his inspection, and was sitting up on the chair where John normally sat. His tail thumped twice upon seeing John, and his tongue hung out the side of his grinning mouth. He didn’t look the least bit ashamed for having slipped inside, nor did he look all that worried that John would kick him back out again. Especially as when John looked out the window, it had started to sleet.
John rubbed his hand over his face. “Fine,” he grumbled. “It’s fine.”
He went back to the little bedroom, and undressed, dropping his clothes on the chair before crawling under the covers. The sleet came down in a rush, and John listened as it blended with the static in his head. It wasn’t long before he felt the mattress give as the dog jumped up, and then there was a wet nose burying itself under John’s hand, resting on his stomach as he settled beside his self-appointed master.
Cold and lonely
I never meant anybody harm
The dog let out a wistful sigh.
“Yeah,” said John, and scratched his ears, and stared at the ceiling above.
Please note that future chapters will be hosted on AO3 only. You can read Chapter Five here.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Relationships/Characters: Eventual John/Sherlock, Mary Morstan
Warnings: Country Music
Rating: PG
Summary: John Watson writes country western music. Sherlock Holmes sings it.
A/N: Just so’s we’re all clear - the Mary in this story predates S3, so she doesn’t have the same…well, anything really. Except she probably is pretty good with a gun, though not for the same reasons.
Chapter title and the song quoted at the end from Slaid Cleaves’s Cold and Lonely, which might just be the most depressing country song in the history of the world, and yes, I’m aware that Whiskey Lullaby in on every list known to man. But Cleaves’ song matches the mood in this chapter a bit better. I warn you, it’s so depressing, I was giggling like a maniac as I listened, but I think Richard Harris’s MacArthur Park is brilliant stuff, so YMMV. The other song John thinks about is his own (and was written by me).
Chapters One ~ Two ~ Three
Chapter Four: Just Drifting By
The letters remained in a pile where John left them, on the counter next to the fridge. A neat little stack of cream-colored envelopes, his name and address in spiky handwriting.
John meant to throw them away. Every morning he saw the pile, snorted in derision, and resolved to actually do it.
In the meantime, the letters sat and gathered dust, and sometimes instead of dust, they simply gained another letter.
The crisp fall weather turned into brutal winter just before Thanksgiving. John suffered through the motions at Mary’s, where she’d invited half the town, including Doc Molly, who seemed to have found new courage in a new dress, and was determine to use it on talking to him. John listened and nodded and said what he hoped were the right things at the right times. He ate turkey and oyster stuffing, roasted root vegetables and potatoes with gravy, home-made cranberry sauce and green beans and macaroni cheese and didn’t taste a thing, and when he was done, he graciously refused the pumpkin pie because he’d already spent too long from the horses, there was a wind kicking up and he needed to get home before the storm blew in.
The other guests protested and poked gentle fun at his work ethic; none of them seemed terribly upset at his early departure. Horses, after all, were a 24/7 job, and every person there understood and made no move to stop John from going. Mary stood by the door and watched him go, and the next day when he returned to his house after checking the fences, there was half an apple pie waiting for him in his kitchen.
The pile of letters remained untouched. John couldn’t tell if they were quietly mocking, or just quiet. He looked at them and felt a pang of guilt for not answering them, and then a moment later remembered what they actually said, and the anger drove him straight out of the house and into the yard, across the frostbitten grass and the icy gravel into the warm barn, full of horses who didn’t ask questions and pressed their noses into his hand.
He wrote the songs, sure. Didn’t mean he owned them. Not like that. Cocky, self-assured, stuck up Brit kid could do whatever he wanted with them, if he didn’t like ‘em.
The dog waited for him inside the barn. Its brothers were somewhere else, eating their scraps and chow and chasing down rats and the rest, but this one was determined to stay near John. He sat up when John came in, watching him expectantly, and followed John outside, but always at a respectable distance, understanding that John might tolerate him, but didn’t want him all the same. It was only recently that John would look around, and not see the dog, and that little trickle of worry would creep in. But the dog always turned up, eventually.
Frost turned the pale grass white; the clouds hung low over the horizon. Storm coming in, John decided, and went into the shed for the coats. Most of the horses wouldn’t need them, but Calufrax’s owners were skittish, and Pickering was just old. He fixed them up, and led them outside into the pale day, and the horses seemed to pick up just being in the cold air, as if they preferred the grand, frozen outdoors over the warm fug of a covered barn, soft hay for sleeping and warm oats for eating.
Maybe they did, John thought, watching them gallop across the pasture. Remy, in an uncharacteristically spry mood, lay down and rolled, his feet flying ungainly in the air, and the dog seemed to catch on Remy’s suddenly receptive mood, and dashed out from behind John’s legs, through the fencing, and out to meet the horse, all frantically happy barks and wagging tail and flapping ears.
John watched as Remy reached his nose out to give the dog what he imagined was a powerful sniff, and then Remy was up and running again, the dog barking happily behind him. Remy was faster; he’d get fifty feet ahead, and stop, turn his head to look for the dog, practically falling over itself in a desperate attempt to catch up, and as soon as it looked as if the dog might be on him, Remy’d take off again across the pasture.
The dog never stopped, just kept on going, like it was the best game in the world. After a few goes, he did slow down, and sat down, tongue rolling out the side of its mouth, panting hard.
Remy slowed, turned to look at it, and then when he realized the dog wasn’t following, trotted back to him, as if wondering if the game was up.
The moment he was within striking distance, the dog took off in the opposite direction like a shot. Remy stopped in his tracks and snorted, realizing he’d been had.
John, watching all of this play out, laughed. It was creaky and ill-used, and it almost hurt while at the same time, he felt just a tad bit lighter for it. He turned away from the play out on the pasture, closed up the gate, set the latch, and started back to the barn.
The day dragged on in fits and starts - muck out the stalls, sawdust on the manure pile, fresh hay on the floors. John scrubbed out the troughs and refilled them; threw extra sand down on the indoor arena, tackled the mountain of paperwork regarding feed orders and medical charts and all the small and large charges that came with operating a stables, thing he never really had thought about before Murray had offered him the job.
“It’s quiet. It’s out-of-the-way. Not much to do there but take care of the horses.” It had been less advertisement than cautionary tale; Murray had sounded dubious that John would even want to secret himself away from the world. Except it was exactly what John had wanted. Still wanted. Probably would always want, John figured, and when Murray came back from Afghanistan, and John wasn’t needed to manage the stables anymore…well, he’d figure something else out. He’d have experience in the work by then, might be able to find a job somewhere else, remote enough that he didn’t have to think about people, didn’t have to worry about anyone caring too much about him.
Didn’t have to worry about caring too much about them, either.
Two in the afternoon; the mail would have arrived out on the main road. John stretched and felt his stomach rumble. Tea and toast for breakfast, nothing since, and he felt hollow and light. He padded across the house on stocking feet, into the kitchen, where he rummaged about until he found a bit of chicken, bread, mustard, and fixed himself a sandwich. He glanced at the answering machine idly, still a solid number 1, and thought about calling the phone company. Mike had complained again about not being able to ring through, even though John was perfectly able to ring out. And Sherlock in the letters had said…
John left the kitchen, shoved his feet into his boots, and stepped outside before even putting on his coat. The cold air was dry and brutal and served to snap him out of his line of thought. The dog sat up from the pile of blankets on the porch, expectantly watching John, who absently tossed the remainder of the sandwich in the air for him. The dog caught it neatly, and began to chow it down.
“Mail run,” said John, and started the long walk down the lane to the main road. The dog finished off the sandwich and followed.
The ground was frozen beneath John’s feet. The sky was bright blue, not a cloud to be seen, and the sun might have been weak, but it was warm enough on John’s shoulders. He rolled them, testing them out, and was satisfied when they didn’t ache with the motion.
“Hard work, mucking out stalls and reining in horses,” Murray had said, and John hadn’t needed the reminder. It was half the reason he wanted the job. Clearly, it’d paid off; his fingers might ache, sharp shooting pains up his arm in the dead of night, or when the cold was really bad, but that he could walk the half mile down to the road, and back, and still have the energy to bring in the horses and brush down Remy and sweep the floors and all the other countless small things it took to keep the stables running…well, that was a blessing. That was enough.
The thing about hard work, especially when it was routine, was that it was easy to get lost in it, forget anything existed outside of it. It was only in the dead of night, when John woke up for no reasons whatsoever, that he would lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling, and hear the voices echoing in his head, conversations he could forget in the light of day, and in them, he’d say different things, do different things, rewrite history until everything landed the way it ought to have done. Easy to pretend the bed he slept in was the one he remembered from years past, no longer ashes but actuality.
The sunrise would render those dreams into ash themselves, until John was covered in it.
The mailbox was half full of envelopes. Junk mail, flyers from various businesses, the odd catalog or two. John flipped through them while the dog sniffed the ground, clearly on the track of something delicious. A couple for Murray; he’d forward those on. One for Mary which had obviously been accidentally slipped into his pile at the post office; he shoved it into his coat pocket to give her later. He still had the pie plate leftover from Thanksgiving that needed returning, and that had been two months ago. That afternoon was as good a time as any.
A rather thick envelope from Mike - too thick for a royalty check, and it wasn’t the right time of year for renewal of contracts. John ripped it open, and knew the moment his fingers touched the smooth paper, undoubtedly cream-colored, undoubtedly addressed to him, care of his agent.
John cursed under his breath, and pulled it out. Yup. Another one, to add to the pile. And…John frowned, looking at the second page.
An airline reservation?
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.
John snorted and shoved the letter and its damn fool enclosure into his pocket without reading the rest. He turned abruptly back for the house. The dog took another moment, one last longing sniff, before bounding to his side, yipping as if to explain to John what he’d just been doing.
John shoved his hands into his pockets, bent his head down against the wind, and kept going.
*
“Oh, good, I need help with the ladder,” said Mary when John knocked on her door later that day. She spun on her heel and marched back into the house, leaving John to follow her, shedding his coat and boots in the hall. “In the kitchen,” Mary called back.
The house was clearly in a state of flux, with the holidays over, but John could see the boxes of Christmas decorations in the corner, packed safely away for next year, and had no doubt about what Mary had been doing. He padded into the kitchen just in time to catch Mary as she stumbled down the ladder, and the box she’d been carrying went flying.
“Oof,” groaned Mary, and then grinned up at him. “Why, John Watson, I do declare. I never knew you were so strong.”
John snorted, and righted Mary onto her feet. “Most people who ask for help, wait before actually attempting whatever fool thing they’re trying to do.”
“Oh, please, there wasn’t nothing in the box to break, I still have to fill it up. I just lost my balance. Is that my pie plate?”
John nodded. “Unless you know of another apple pie fairy ‘round here.”
“And you even washed it. Strong arms, likes horses, can wash a dish. Think I’ll keep you. Can you help carry all the boxes in the living room up to the attic? The ladder goes out to the barn but you’ve already taken off your boots.”
John set to work. Most of the boxes weren’t terribly heavy but there were quite a few of them, and by the time he was done, John had broken out a sweat. Mary smiled brightly when he reappeared and pushed him toward the table in the kitchen, which she’d laid out with coffee and cake and a sandwich so thick with meat and lettuce and tomatoes that John wasn’t sure his mouth could fit around it.
“Ought to have vegetables or something but I’ve never been great shakes at cooking outside holidays,” confessed Mary.
“You didn’t have to.”
“A ‘course I do, you moved all those boxes for me, didn’t you? And brought back my pie plate.”
“And a letter,” remembered John, and he sat the sandwich back down on the plate. “Mixed up with my mail.”
Mary waved him down. “No, you sit. I’ll get it. In your coat?”
“Yes.”
The sandwich was better than Mary would have had John believe - or maybe he was just hungrier than he’d thought. He was halfway through the second half, with a sizable dent in the bowl of chips Mary had provided, when he realized that Mary hadn’t come back into the kitchen.
“Mary, you get lost in your own house?” he called out, but his voice echoed back at him. He frowned, and hesitated before shoving back in the chair and leaving the sandwich on the plate.
Mary was just turning from his coat hanging in the hall when John spotted her. He thought he could see her hand stuffing something back into his pocket, but wasn’t entirely sure because when she turned, her eyes were bright and her smile was shining, and in her hands she clutched the mis-delivered mail.
“Sorry, you’ve got a lot of pockets in that coat,” she said cheerfully, but John knew how to listen, no matter what Sherlock Holmes might say. He could hear the false note in her voice.
“Three of them,” John said cautiously, and already felt his heart sinking as Mary crossed the floor toward the kitchen.
“Isn’t it funny, how you never find what you’re looking for in the first place you look?” said Mary.
The letter. Sherlock’s letter, and its ridiculous enclosure. Damn.
“It’s always in the last place you expect,” continued Mary.
“Because most people stop looking after they’ve found what they want. Mary-”
Mary waved her hand. “Finish your sandwich?”
“Near enough.”
“Suppose you’ll be leaving, then?” Mary’s voice caught; her entire body stilled for a moment, as if afraid to hear the answer, and then she continued, just as she had before, into the kitchen. John turned slowly and followed her.
“Wasn’t thinking to just yet,” said John cautiously. “Still have to move the ladder.”
Mary nearly threw the leftover sandwich plate into the sink. “The ladder? John Watson, are you having me on? I am not asking about a ladder.”
“Then you’ll have to spell it out for me, Mary, because I had a higher opinion of you than someone who’d look at a person’s private correspondence!”
Mary flushed and turned back to the sink. “I didn’t realize it wasn’t for me until I’d opened it. And then I couldn’t help but wonder why Sherlock Holmes would be writing to me. Except the only thing that makes less sense is why he’d be writing to you, because you don’t even know who he is!”
“I know who he is.”
“Well, of course you do - apparently the man is singing songs you wrote! And now he’s sending you tickets to fly off to Nashville-”
“I’m not going.”
Mary rounded on him again. “What?”
John held up his hands. “Why the hell would I go to Nashville, Mary? Who would take care of the horses?”
“Who would…” echoed Mary blankly, and then she surged toward him, the dishtowel in her hand flying at his head as if it were a whip, punctuating each word with another slap at John’s head. “The horses? This is about the horses? John - Watson - you - are- an - idiot.”
John tried to block the towel from his head, somewhat ineffectively. But then, the towel wasn’t all that good of a weapon as it was. “Hey!”
“A celebrity sends you plane tickets, you go!” shrieked Mary, and dropped the towel on the kitchen floor. “Oh, hell. I’ll go, you stay here with the horses.”
“Mary!” yelled John, and followed her out of the kitchen.
“Oh, don’t protest, shame to let them go to waste. And have you seen the man? He’s the tallest drink of cold water I’ve seen on a hot day since I was three and thought the sun rose and set in Danny Bonaduce. I can sing. Maybe I can help him out.”
John stared at Mary as she went down the hall to the little bedroom he knew was in the back of the house. He could hear her rummaging around in the closet - she couldn’t actually be choosing clothes to pack, could she?
Then he heard a thump, and the spin of wheels, and imagined a little pull-along suitcase. He groaned and let his head fall in his hands. Dammit all to hell if she wasn’t trying to call him out…
Only one thing to do. “Fine,” he called back to her. “Go on and use ‘em. Like you say, shame to let them go to waste.”
A pause, and then heavy footfalls as Mary came back down the hallway. “What?”
“Go ahead,” said John placidly, and he made himself comfortable on the sofa. “I’ve heard you sing, you can carry a tune better’n me. Not sure you’re quite what this Holmes fellow is expecting, but maybe you can fix whatever he thinks is broke.”
Mary stared at him for a moment, and then disappeared down the hallway again. John heard her walk halfway down, and then come storming back out.
“John Watson,” she said, eagle eyes and fists on hips. “You are trying to call my bluff.”
“Nah,” said John. He propped his feet up on the ottoman and rummaged along the side of the chair for a magazine. Entertainment Weekly. “Is this the one with the review of that spy flick?”
“It’s not going to work. I can call and change the name on those tickets. Always wanted to see Nashville. The Grand Ole Opry. Graceland.”
“That’s Memphis.”
Mary kicked the ottoman out from under John’s feet. John glanced at her over the magazine and frowned, but said nothing. Mary stared at him, shaking with annoyance, and then she threw up her hands and collapsed on the sofa nearby.
“I swear, I cannot suss you out, John Watson.”
“Mmm,” said John, and turned a page.
“Anybody with their head on straight would jump at free tickets out of this town and all you can say is, ‘Well, someone has to watch the horses’.” Mary dropped her voice to imitate him in a way that he didn’t think was meant to be flattering.
“It’s true.”
“It’s bull, that’s what it is. You’ve been here near a year without a single day off, and don’t think I haven’t watched men go mad with that kind of schedule. Murray wouldn’t mind if you asked for a few days. Hell, I think he owes ‘em to you - there’s laws about vacation time, and days off, and you ain’t taken none of that.”
“I get plenty of compensation without you looking out for me, Mary.”
“Compensation? What, like burying yourself in a no-name town in the middle of nowhere and ignoring anyone who tries to make friendly with you? That’s compensation?”
“It what I signed up to do, Mary.”
“And I’ve always wondered why.”
“Maybe I couldn’t get anything else.”
Mary went still - too still. John looked at her over the magazine again. “I can hear you thinking from this chair, Mary.”
“I’ve known Bill Murray since we were four years old,” said Mary, low. “And do you know what he said to me, the week after you moved in? ‘Be kind.’ Don’t rightly know what he meant, I’m always kind. But I was fixing to come over and bring food and introduce you to everyone, make sure you knew where you stood and that’s all he said, be kind, as if the kindest thing I could do for you was to leave you alone.”
John had long since stopped reading the magazine. His hand shook, the papers rattling together, and he slammed it down on his lap to stop the noise. “You always ignore what he tells you?”
“I did, though. I let you be, I waited a whole month before I stopped by, and I made sure I had a reason apart from bringing you a pie to welcome you. And I’ve never asked you about your past or your kin or anything that might have brought you here. I’ve left you as alone as I can manage. And I think I know you, John Watson - least, I thought I knew you. Knew you to be a decent man with a strong sense of pride and self-reliance, never wanting to ask for help when you could do it yourself. Never wanting to accept charity or a helping hand when you could make do with what you had. But a good man, under all that. Just wanting your own bit of space. And you’re telling me you don’t deserve more than a day or two to do whatever it is from your past is calling you back?”
“Sherlock Holmes ain’t my past.”
“He’s something to you, I expect.”
“He’s nothing to me.”
“He’s singing music you wrote.” Mary sucked in her breath and sprang to her feet. “It’s you, ain’t it?”
“Mary-“
She was quick, he’d give her that. She was across the room and rummaging in the drawer under the stereo; after a moment, she pulled out a CD, and had opened it quick as anything. She pulled out the booklet and started to scan it before shouting out in glee. “Here. Right here, look at that.”
Mary thrust the booklet under John’s nose.
River Street Torch Song
Words by John Watson
Music by John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
John got to his feet slowly, and walked to the window, still holding the booklet. Just a fold of paper, not much to it, no lyrics printed and very light on the graphics; clearly the production company wasn’t willing to shell out much money for the packaging on a rising star just yet. Only a single photograph of a man in profile, dark silhouette against the light coming in from the barn doors.
He was tall, Mary wasn’t wrong. Tall and lithe, leaning against a post, large hands wrapped around the wood as if he might fall over if he let go. His head was bent forward just a tad, his boots - the high-heeled kind, with the smooth curve to the ankle - were toes-up, heels on the ground. Maybe he’d fallen backwards, caught the post at the exact moment the photographer had snapped the camera. Maybe he was comfortable in that odd position, still and quiet, waiting for the word to spring to action. The dark line of him was sharp against the bright light behind; he couldn’t have been in motion. The wide-brimmed hat hung low on his head, almost ready to fall, and John thought if he did, the man might catch it as smoothly as if it’d been planned from the start.
He wondered, briefly, what that man looked like. He turned the booklet over, thinking his face would surely grace the front, but instead, it was a close-up of the tight curves of a violin against a dark purple velvet background.
Mike had told him the song had been sold, months ago. Second track on a single, John thought he remembered Mike saying. Meaning the artist liked it but didn’t expect it to go much of anywhere.
This is what I ain’t been told
On the day that I grew old
This is how I ain’t been bred
This ain’t the life I should have led…
“I don’t want to know your secrets,” said Mary, somewhere behind him.
“You sure seem intent on asking about them,” said John, but he couldn’t manage to set the booklet down.
“I’m not. Not really. But…” Mary paused. “If Sherlock Holmes ain’t part of your past, he sure seems interested in being part of your future.”
John snorted softly. “I have to get back to the horses.”
“The horses, the horses,” said Mary, wretchedly. “It’s always the horses with you.”
John set the booklet down on the table, but didn’t draw his hand away just yet. “I run a stables, Mary - it can’t be anything but.”
He stepped back, leaving the booklet behind, but the silhouette of the young man was already burned in his memory. The light shining through the curls in his hair, the bridge of his boot, the curve at the back of his knee.
“And that’s what your life is now? Horses, and ignoring letters from Sherlock Holmes? You forget, I know you, John Watson. I think I might know you better than any other person in this entire state.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I’m the only one who knows who you are.”
John shook his head.
“No one else knows you write songs for Sherlock Holmes, do they? Just me. Well, I know those songs, John. I’ve listened to them in the dead of night and I’ve sung them by the light of the day and I’ve watched you over the last year since Bill told me to be kind, and I know you’re running from something, and you say that something isn’t Sherlock Holmes, and I know you cain’t lie so I have to believe you. And whatever you’re running from, it’s terrible, and being here for a year hasn’t lessened the pain I see in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. So I don’t think being here is helping you one bit. And if writing these songs helps - maybe you should forget the horses, and use those tickets and get the hell out of here, and see if Sherlock Holmes don’t help you forget whatever it is brought you here in the first place.”
This is the life was handed me
From rocky shore to stormy sea
I’m bound by choice and sealed by fate
I pray to God it’s not too late
John breathed. In, out. In, out. Behind him, Mary was waiting. He knew what she wanted to hear: for him to capitulate, to agree to go, to make plans for care of the horses. To smile a bit sheepishly, maybe shed a tear or two, to give her a hug and a word of thanks for breaking him free of the prison sentence she felt he’d been serving.
And that’s what it was, what she proposed he’d been doing - serving a prison sentence of sorts, the daily routine of waking up, caring for the horses, going to bed at night, never a day’s break or relief.
“You’re not the judge and jury of me, Mary,” said John, fingers tapping the booklet with Sherlock Holmes’s picture.
“No, of course not,” said Mary. “But you don’t belong here. I’m not sure you ever did.”
“There’s a whole town what would disagree with you.”
“I know. Don’t matter. I’m the one who’s right.”
John chuckled. “I’m not using the tickets.”
Mary exhaled. “You’re a fool, then.”
John shook his head. “No.”
He stepped away from the table, and careful not to look at Mary, walked to the door to pull on his boots.
Mary followed him. “No, you are, John Watson. I don’t…I don’t understand you. You cain’t tell me you want this, to live and die on a horse ranch in the middle of Oklahoma, a footnote in some biography of a country star?”
“Don’t matter. I’m needed here.”
“You’re needed in Nashville!”
“Sherlock Holmes don’t need me.”
“I think he’s already said different!”
“If he knew me, he’d say otherwise.” The boots were on; John fixed up his coat and took his hat from the hooks. “I’ll get your ladder before I go.”
Mary watched him heft the ladder, arms crossed, silent and fuming. John could feel the disapproval weigh him down. He ignored it.
“I never thought it, you know. That you were running from trouble. Least, not in that way.”
“Not the first time you’ve been wrong,” said John, and opened the door.
“It must have been powerful bad, though, to keep you this way. What’d you do, John Watson? Rob a bank? Burn down a schoolhouse?” Mary paused. “Kill someone?”
John paused, halfway across the threshold. It was enough; Mary sucked in a breath.
“No…John, no.”
His voice was gravelly and gruff. “Ladder goes in the barn, you said. I’d thank you to keep whatever you’ve learned about me to yourself.”
“You…it was just words, John. You couldn’t hurt a fly.”
The door closed behind him, and Mary stood at the window to watch John cross the lawn, the ladder tucked under his arm.
*
First, the horses. John went into the stables, fed and watered, collected the horses from the pasture, brushed them down, removed blankets, rewrapped legs and soothed and nickered in response when the horses called to him. He patted their hoses and shoulders, rubbed the places where their bridles chafed, spent time brushing out Remy’s mane and tail, made note of Calufrax’s eyes and finally stood with Bastian, who was jittery and nervous, uneasy with the weather and God knew what else.
“Never you mind, Bastian,” John told the horse, and brushed him down, tip to tail, letting the soothing motion soothe both of them. By the time he was done, Bastian was calmer, quieter, eyes drooping, and John was bone-tired and ready to drop.
The dog waited at the front door. John barely saw it; he went inside and sat heavily on the chair by the coat hooks. The dog, overwhelmed by being inside for perhaps the first time in its entire life, stayed by his side, wiggling, before temptation became too much and he went sniffing every last little thing in the tiny room. John closed his eyes and leaned his head back to rest against the wall behind him.
His head was full of a dull roar, a strange crackling sort of noise, snapping and creaking and breaking with thunder. The static of a radio without a station; the roar of the ocean in the middle of the storm, the moment after lightening has struck. John listened to the noise, and heard the dog whimper with excitement, the soft whisper of it sniffing the bench and the floor and his boots.
John opened his eyes, and slowly reached for the bootjack. He took off his boots one at a time, lined them up next to the bench, and without standing, shrugged off his coat. The leeway was cold without it, but John didn’t hurry; he hung his hat on a peg, and padded into the main house, shutting the door to the freezing little leeway just after the dog slipped through to the main house.
He’d left on the small lamp, but that was all right. The sky was near dark, and it was better than coming back to a pitch-black house. The dog kept sniffing, tail wagging like mad, and John walked through to the kitchen. Creaks and groans as he crossed the floorboards, the sniff of the dog as he found a particularly delicious spot of air, the gentle tinkling of the glasses lined up in the china cupboard, placed a bit too closely together.
John stood in the kitchen, and realized he wasn’t hungry. The room was dark, cold, entirely unwelcoming. John pulled the envelope from Sherlock Holmes out of his pocket, and felt the thick contents. The letter, and the confirmation codes for the flights he’d intended John to take.
John dropped the envelope on the pile, and left the kitchen again.
The dog had finished his inspection, and was sitting up on the chair where John normally sat. His tail thumped twice upon seeing John, and his tongue hung out the side of his grinning mouth. He didn’t look the least bit ashamed for having slipped inside, nor did he look all that worried that John would kick him back out again. Especially as when John looked out the window, it had started to sleet.
John rubbed his hand over his face. “Fine,” he grumbled. “It’s fine.”
He went back to the little bedroom, and undressed, dropping his clothes on the chair before crawling under the covers. The sleet came down in a rush, and John listened as it blended with the static in his head. It wasn’t long before he felt the mattress give as the dog jumped up, and then there was a wet nose burying itself under John’s hand, resting on his stomach as he settled beside his self-appointed master.
Cold and lonely
I never meant anybody harm
The dog let out a wistful sigh.
“Yeah,” said John, and scratched his ears, and stared at the ceiling above.
Please note that future chapters will be hosted on AO3 only. You can read Chapter Five here.