The Bone Fiddle, Chapter 2/13
Title: The Bone Fiddle
Authors: htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By: bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
In this chapter: If John had read his tea leaves or his fortune cookie, it would have said "You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger." And there ain't nobody stranger.
Chapter 2 - Danse Macabre
When John drove up to the VFW building he was distracted by the elaborate sunset. It was all dark reds splotches and bright blue edges of clouds, vibrant pink shards trickling through it here and there. It was too exotic for Stanger.
So basically John couldn't even enjoy a perfectly good sunset now without finding something wrong with it. Great.
He put his truck in park and hopped out, propping his cane against the car door. He ducked to straighten up in the side mirror and caught sight of an approaching pack of girls dressed to the nines - well, dressed to the nines by West Virginian standards, anyway. He tilted his head as they passed him in a wave of overeager perfume and very tight jeans that were probably illegal in a couple of states. So maybe not exactly 'to the nines'.
John stood back up, immediately unbalanced because of his leg and narrowly missed making a complete idiot out of himself. Why was he doing this again? He snatched up his cane, because it was definitely the cane's fault he needed a cane in the first place.
Another pack of girls - and my God, how many were there in this town? - loitered outside the door. They seemed much less bubbly, but considerably more, well, available. One was talking animatedly to her friend, who was sitting boredly on the wheel stop and clearly wanted no part in the conversation. A third girl giggled and twined her hair around her fingers while a man old enough to be her father leaned against the building and ogled her.
"Can't remember the last time I seen you around town," the ogler said. "In fact I could'a sworn you went away to some fancy school upstate."
"Who me?" She angled herself closer to him. "Lived here all my life. But I might hafta get out more often if it means talkin' to fine gentlemen like yourself."
If John had still had two good legs, he would have kicked himself, because he caught himself thinking that that girl could do a lot better than that guy - for example, maybe himself, who was at least only old enough to be her uncle. Ohhh John Watson, no, he chided himself. She may not be jailbait now, but she was about ten minutes ago. Christ. He needed to get his head examined even more than he needed to get laid. Maybe both. But not by a teenager wearing too much blue eyeshadow.
The girl hunched over on the ground stared at him unblinkingly the whole time he approached. She wasn't impressed with him, it seemed. There was something about her stare that made John want to put a door between himself and it as soon as possible, and he just tried not to limp too much as he did that.
As soon as he crossed the threshold into the little town hall he was assaulted by sound, music, and the microphoned caller rising over everything with random, made-up sounding dance figures. "Yip and holler and everybody swing!" he shouted, and everyone on the dance floor shifted in sync like a school of fish.
The band was of the old school by way of the bluegrass conventions - string bass, banjo, guitar, and a fiddler who looked like he was trying to saw off his own arm to get out of a bear trap. Dancers' feet kept the rhythm - truer than the band did - and John was a little in awe of the layer of flying feet across the floor.
The low-ceilinged room was dimly lit but warm and welcoming as could be. A sizeable crowd of people were dancing in the middle of the cleared out space while others milled about on the sidelines next to folded up chairs, mingling under old photographs and framed lists of the dead.
Clearly Mrs. Hudson wasn't only one who'd had news of John's arrival. People whispered to one another and cast furtive glances his way as he walked past.
It was a strange sensation to be in Stanger as an adult - all his memories of the place were confused by a childhood filter. He supposed he'd never really thought of it as a real place where grownups lived. What to do now that he was one?
Rising above frantic, indistinct fiddling, the caller shouted, "Circle home don't take all day!" The whirling pairs made another formation, as precise as fighter jets over the base.
"You're that doctor, ain'tcha?" The man who had spoken appeared seemingly out of nowhere and smiled broadly at him. He had stubble on his face and an expression that seemed stuck in a perpetual smirk.
"Doctor who - ? Oh, uh. Yes. Dr. John Watson." John had to switch his cane to his left hand just to shake hands. The man's shirt was unbuttoned halfway, and it made John feel awkward and overdressed.
"Pleased to meet ya. Doctor," the man said, gleaming at him. It was disconcerting.
"Likewise, uh - ?"
"Just call me Tanner," he said quietly, leaning closer to compensate for the noisy music. "Now, you bein' new in town, bet you don't know about the murders."
". . . Murders."
"Yep. Every couple months some poor young woman turn up dead, seems. And the cops, well they don't know what it is. Tell you what, though, it's high time there was some excitement in this town. You cain't say it ain't at least excitin'."
"Yeah, I heard about that. So we got a Jack the Ripper, maybe, just killing folks for the hell of it? A local chapter of the Manson Family up the road from me?"
Tanner laughed, which was soft and at odds with his rugged appearance. "God only knows, Johnny, God only knows. But just between you an' me, what kinda tenderfoot thinks it's a good idea to wander around these here woods at night without a gun? You know?" He laughed and clapped John forcefully on the shoulder.
John's involuntarily exhale would hopefully pass for a laugh. "Yeah." He'd killed people before, but whatever sense of duty or self-defense or plain necessity he'd felt at the time had long since dissipated and left him with a sick twist in the pit of his stomach.
Everyone he'd killed had thought the same things he had about duty and honor and the reasons why someone slightly different had to die. He wanted to know, suddenly, what it looked like inside a Vietnamese veterans center. Even if they didn't have any such thing, people would still have gathered around tables at cafeterias and talked quietly amongst themselves in the post-war corporate jungle. Were there flag smothered walls that you didn't know how to feel about, like here? Did they periodically shove all the clutter of chairs and medals and memories off to the side to make room for normal, untroubled people to dance heedlessly into the night, too?
"Welp!" Tanner said, hand sliding over John's shoulder before he removed it. "It was a pleasure. See you round, Johnny."
John watched him go, still preoccupied with fleeting thoughts of war. No gruesome, explicit flashbacks - just a permeating sense of the way people died so easily in chokingly hot, gorgeously lush foreign valleys. And maybe these valleys weren't so different.
He shook himself and waded through the crowd again, figuring he might have better luck dealing with someone less . . . peppy. He spotted a man standing alone in the corner in decidedly lived in clothes that stretched over his prominent muscles. He had a kind face, though, and his long hair was tied neatly back. Everyone around him shot him dirty looks, which only made John more curious about him.
Someone nearly ran him over, just then, on her determined path through the crowd.
"Excuse me, miss," John said, bending painfully to pick his cane back up. The girl who turned around to face him was the apathetic one who couldn't even be bothered to stand, outside. He immediately regretted addressing her, and braced himself for whatever snide remark was forthcoming. "Do you, uh, do you know who that fella in the corner is? It's just I'm new in town, and - "
"I know."
"Um." John frowned. Her face was completely blank. "Okay, so - "
"I know you're the soldier back from war as just moved in. Everybody does. New people are the most interesting thing that can happen, round here."
John laughed, because her face still hadn't changed and he thought she might be kidding around. She didn't react to it, though. "Yeah, know what you mean. So, who's - ?"
"Lonnie Martelli. He's an ex-con, and people treat him like that means he's the devil. Everyone thinks he used to beat his wife, but his wife is a total bitch, so who knows. They say he's a draft dodger, too."
"Right, so - "
As if sensing the awkwardness of the moment, the caller chimed in with an inexplicable, "Chase that rabbit, chase that squirrel!" Dancers broke into a different formation, couples moving up and down a double line, before splitting into a less formal arrangement. Couples were playfully mismatched this time and gender didn't seem to be a factor. Women's fluffy petticoats mingled with jeans and longtail shirts, and the stamp of boots got louder.
"Peace," the girl said tonelessly, already walking away.
John stood there blinking after her in disbelief, then collected himself, then resumed disbelief when he caught sight of a woman making her way over to him through the crowd. She smiled when he caught her eye, and he couldn't help giving her once over - legs for days and wavy hair and no ring and how the hell was a woman that beautiful not married?
Then again, there was a war on.
How was he to go about charming a lady, anyway? He'd been a decent dancer way back when, back when you could listen to both the old-timey stuff and rock'n'roll, back when a knack for flat-footin' wasn't so incompatible with the Elvis hips if you played it just right. Well, John had never been all that handsome and he'd always been kinda short, so he had to have something. And that was one thing he didn't have anymore. He'd be very happy to live the rest of his life without ever seeing again a pretty face full of pity.
He was glad she was approaching him, to save himself the embarrassment of limping over to grovel at her feet or whatever he would've ended up doing. She held out a limp hand for him to shake and introduced herself: "Hello, there."
"John Watson." John shook her hand. "They don't have names in this town?"
She laughed. "My name is Mary Russell, if you want to know, but I wasn't fixin' on being quite so formal with you."
"Oh?" John smiled a little. "What were you fixin' on?"
She laughed again. "Well, John Watson, I heard you was new in town. Word spreads fast in Stanger, which you'll find out soon enough, I reckon. And well, to be honest with you, I was wanting to spread some of the Word, myself."
John raised his eyebrows. "You can't know me all that well, ma'am, 'cause if you did, you'd know I grew up not far from here, and as such I happen to know all about our Lord Jesus Christ and what he gone and done about my sins."
"My mistake," Mary smiled. "And although you're not far off, there, I was meaning more in relation to the troubles what been plaguing our town, of late."
"The murders? I heard."
"I'm sure you did. Hard to avoid it. But I just wanted you to know you ain't like to be in danger, yourself. It's only been those as deserved it been killed, so far."
"I see," John said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "If you don't mind my asking, how is it they deserved gettin' killed?"
"The lot of them didn't have much in common apart from living sinful lives. One of old Mrs. McKenna's kin," And Mary drops to a whisper to say, "He was a hippie," before continuing: "Good-looking boy, though. Shame about that anti American nonsense. He turned up dead not three months ago. Gruesome as all hell, it was, tore apart limb from limb. Then there was a colored girl come into town a few years back, and when she was found beat and bloodied out in Gregson Woods, well, nobody was surprised. I heard tell she was a prostitute, back in Knoxville. You only had to look at her to see it was the truth. That was, oh, back around Christmas last year, I do believe. The list goes on. God rest their souls, of course, but well, I ain't sure if He'll see fit for them to rest in heaven. Lord knows they had it comin', and if this purgin' of their vile, un-Christian ways ain't God's work then I don't know what is."
John cleared his throat. "I hear you. Well, Miss Russell, it was a pleasure makin' your acquaintance," he said, then hurried to leave before she had a chance to be offended. He had a clearer understanding of her ringless status now, at least.
John bumped into someone not ten paces into his daring escape, mumbled an apology and backed up. Never went smooth. How come it never went smooth? At least he hadn't dropped his cane, this time. He was about ready to give up on the whole pointless charade and come crawling back to Mrs. Hudson with her innocuous chatter and fantastic home cooking.
The caller, in the background: "One more change and home you go!"
John was just trying to locate the exit when he felt eyes on him. Again. And these eyes felt different. He'd gotten paranoid during his tour of duty, and with good reason, but this time he was sure someone was staring at him. He turned around slowly and confirmed his suspicions.
Lestrade was nearby, trying to look as if he wasn't there in an official capacity, and he shot John a half-attentive friendly little wave, but it was clear he was really focused on a rather heated three-way exchange between his deputy - amazingly enough, a very pretty dark-skinned woman - and a tall, thin man in a long black coat. John couldn't hear a word of it over the music, even as he came close to the only familiar face in the room. The latter two looked like only the long arm of the law in between them was keeping the fisticuffs at bay. But the argument ended abruptly as the man obviously tuned her out mid-insult and focused all his attention straight on John, staring openly at him.
And indeed, after another minute of awkward standoff the man pushed past his companions. They looked none too pleased with his rudeness, and the woman gestured after him while the sheriff nodded and waved her off impatiently.
The man walked up to John, all pale skin and dark clothes. A pair of piercingly blue eyes stared down at him, which was even more intimidating up close. "Dr. John Watson, Army captain with a purple heart but a physically sound leg. You had a private practice in a much more populated area, but your roots are definitely here. Your daddy's been dead for years, but you're still desperate to do good by him. You'd planned on taking up residence on your family's land, but that went south pretty quick, so you're making do in a sorry excuse for a trailer out on Route 221."
"I . . ."
The man rolled his eyes, exasperated. "It's a small town. People talk."
John frowned, because it was pretty clear already that this guy wasn't someone who talked to people willingly.
It was right about then that someone came up to talk to him.
"Made it into town at last, Sherlock? How long as it been? A couple years at least by my last count . . ."
"It's none of your business, Mycroft."
"Oh but it is. Or are you bored of having a roof over your head, already?"
"Don't you have anything better to do than pester me? I think there's a box of donuts over by the bar with your name on it."
While they sparred, John had a chance to catch up. The man who had first talked to him - talked at him, more like - was dressed very warmly for being indoors, and although his attire was definitely weather appropriate, but it still looked very out of place. The cut of his coat was much too ritzy. He wore dress pants instead of jeans, and it wasn't like he'd just come from church.
But it wasn't just his clothes that made him stand out. There was a quiet stillness about him that was intriguing. You could practically feel sharp, restless energy bubbling just beneath the surface.
The other one was even more out of place, if that was possible. No one else would wear a suit like that to a place like this. No one else would even have a suit like that. Probably cost as much as John's trailer - and around here, that just wasn't done.
"What are you doing here anyway? Not enough drama to keep you occupied in D.C.?"
Mycroft smiled. "In a way, that's why I'm here. But you do need checking up on, Sherlock."
Sherlock. Stanger was a damn small town, and even a big city probably wouldn't have two people with a name like that.
John hadn't been included in the conversation, and he should've just moved on, but he was frozen to the spot. It was fascinating to watch this Mr. Sherlock character yammer on because it seemed like he just never, ever stopped.
"Oh, just stay out of it, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. "I promise I'll come crying to you if I spill any milk."
"It's not actually milk that concerns me, it's the fact that for once, I actually really could use your - "
"Not interested, thanks," Sherlock said, then noticed John again. "You've been surpassingly rude, you know. Interrupting my conversation with John, here."
It was only then that Mycroft took notice of John, at all. He smiled and shook his hand firmly.
"Mycroft Holmes," he said, ingratiating from head to toe. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. I have a feeling it'll be good to have a medical man close at hand, considering the . . . " He made a face. ". . . unsavory events of the last few months."
"And you, sir," John said. "It's just a job, you understand. What do you do?"
"Oh, I'm in the hotel business," Mycroft said vaguely, and Sherlock snorted in the background. Mycroft gave him a glare which Sherlock didn't back down from for a second. "I will be in touch," he said, then nodded to John and took his leave.
"So," John said lamely, "You haven't introduced yourself properly."
"The name's Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh? Oh. Okay. Got it." Official, then. This was his eccentric recluse of a neighbor. John barely suppressed a hysterical giggle to think of how far off-base his mental image had been. It must've been Sherlock's unblinking gaze that had John so out of sorts. "Why were you, uh . . ." How to put this diplomatically?
"Staring at you? Well, you are the talk of the town." Sherlock had very pronounced cheekbones, and the shadowy lighting of the hall only served to accentuate them, and God those eyes were just impossibly blue. The man didn't look like he belonged to this world.
"O-kay . . ." John swallowed. "Well, most people do seem to know that. They don't seem to know quite so many details as you do, though. So . . . guess I'm just wonderin' . . . "
"How the hell do I know so much about you?" Sherlock smirked. "It's not rocket science. I merely observe."
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock ignored him. "What are you even doing at a dance if you're not planning on dancing?"
"What makes you think I'm not - ?"
Sherlock's eyes flicked over him then, and John couldn't help feeling self conscious. "Shoes," he said, then tilted his head and added, "Sleeves."
"I. Just. What?" John had expected something more like That pronounced limp of yours was kind of a giveaway. That would've made, you know, sense.
"Those aren't exactly what you'd call dancing shoes."
"It's not tap dancing, you know," John said. "Sleeves?"
"Not rolled up."
John laughed. "Don't see much need to roll up your sleeves for dancing. Last I checked, that's what you call a figure of speech."
"So you were planning on dancing."
"Well, I mean . . ." John was withering under that relentless gaze. ". . . well, my leg. So."
"We'll see about that."
"I mean, I - what?"
And before John could think Sherlock had dragged him out onto the dance floor.
It was like he'd timed it exactly so the moment they set foot on the floor the caller was shouting a new set of dance figures out. John was too disoriented to notice what he'd said, but he heard it when Sherlock leaned closer and said, "Follow my lead."
Sherlock spun John around, and John was surprised by how quickly he remembered the steps. He waited for a lull in the music to ask Sherlock, "You know this dance, huh?"
"No."
John laughed. "Right."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I watched. I've been here for long enough to understand the basics."
"Oh, really," John drawled, watching Sherlock execute every step with casual precision. "How long?"
"The sheriff's bellyaching definitely doesn't demand my full attention. I must've been watching everyone dancing for a good five minutes, which is more than enough."
"Um."
The caller shouted, "Circle four for half the night!"
John could barely keep up, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and whenever he got a good look at Sherlock he ended up laughing, because although Sherlock was kind of obnoxiously talented and that five minutes thing had obviously been a joke, his stoic, sullen face was nothing short of hilarious.
John had to detour to dance with one of the neighboring ladies, who turned out not to be a lady. The stranger's face ran through a myriad of expressions: befuddlement, shock, mild disgust, and finally a very staunch and manly denial.
Luckily the music changed and John was back dancing with Sherlock again. As he linked their arms and spun them, Sherlock leaned in to say, "You swing like thunder, huh?"
"I . . . " John had an exasperated tirade on the tip of his tongue but ended up giggling instead.
The caller shouted: "Hands on wrists and swing like thunder!"
"Ah. Gotcha." John grinned. "And hell yes I can."
The music swirled around the dancers, faster and faster and the people were a blur and Sherlock's face. This was so ridiculous, and things like this never happened to him. John almost ran into another couple when the music stuttered to a flourishing finish.
Sherlock was standing there, ridiculous in his coat, watching him intently. "How's your leg?"
John was still out of breath. "My what?" he gasped.
It was then that the crowd parted and the sheriff came charging through, determination writ on his features. He was not to be messed with, but John found himself wishing Sherlock would mess with him, just to see what would happen.
"Sherlock," the sheriff said. "You'll be wanting to see this."
Sherlock sighed. "Oh, what now, you can't seriously - "
"Something new, this time."
Sherlock paused mid-rant and looked at him. "You sure?"
"Come and see for yourself," the sheriff shrugged, then turned and left without saying anything more.
Sherlock did the same, and left John standing alone in the crowd feeling suddenly bereft, and -
"You're a doctor," came Sherlock's subsonic voice. John turned around to find its source and had to tilt his head back just to meet Sherlock's eyes, he'd been standing so close behind him, "You're an Army doctor."
"Yes," John said slowly. Then because Sherlock was still studying his face, more confidently, "Yes."
Sherlock pretended to consider this. "Hm. So you're acclimated to violence?"
John drew himself up. "Seen my share of action. Too much if you ask me."
Sherlock's mouth twitched. "So you coming or what?"
John's face broke into a grin the same time Sherlock's did, and he followed him with some difficulty through the relentlessly lively crowd. God they were boring.
"This what you do?" John said, catching up. "You just hold court at community events and let people come to you instead of actually socializing?"
"Works pretty well, don't you think?"
"Guess that depends on what you're tryin' to do," John said, following Sherlock as though tied to him by gravity. Lestrade and the deputy were just getting in their car outside, parked up close as it was in the special little gravel parking lot.
"You'll be riding with me," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. John was already figuring he probably didn't ask too many of those.
"Um . . . "
"Lestrade and Donovan are taking up the front seat in their car. You're new in town, so you won't want to be seen in the back seat of the sheriff's car. People will talk."
John stopped up short when he saw the vehicle they were approaching. "Yeah, like dancing with me didn't get 'em . . . And they won't if they see us in . . . that?" How the hell could he have missed that in the parking lot before? It was probably 50s, pretty well-kept, long and black and be-finned and be-chromed. It would have been kind of stylish if it wasn't a fucking hearse.
"People already talk about me, always drawing completely wrong conclusions," Sherlock said. The lights of the lot and headlights around him cast his eyes a cool silver, and John thought he saw some amusement there.
"Well, I sure as hell don't want to be ridin' in the back seat of this one!"
"Is the passenger seat acceptable?"
"I reckon it'll have to be."
Sherlock nodded, and soon they were following the sheriff's car out of town, past the taverns with the trucks and motorcycles, past the railroad yards and the coal loaders and slowly up a hillside, as houses dwindled, streetlights disappeared entirely, and the grade grew steeper.
Later that night, as the band was packing up their gear, the banjo player found an abandoned cane propped against a folding chair. He helpfully turned it in to the janitor, and never gave it another moment's thought for the rest of his life.
***
Chapter 3
Authors: htebazytook and vulgarweed
Beta Read By: bethbethbeth THANK YOU!
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: Overall NC-17
Word Count: ~62,000
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Also featuring (in order of appearance): Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, several OCs (original characters) and OCs (original corpses).
Summary: Appalachian AU!
For full summary and warnings, see Chapter 1
In this chapter: If John had read his tea leaves or his fortune cookie, it would have said "You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger." And there ain't nobody stranger.
Chapter 2 - Danse Macabre
When John drove up to the VFW building he was distracted by the elaborate sunset. It was all dark reds splotches and bright blue edges of clouds, vibrant pink shards trickling through it here and there. It was too exotic for Stanger.
So basically John couldn't even enjoy a perfectly good sunset now without finding something wrong with it. Great.
He put his truck in park and hopped out, propping his cane against the car door. He ducked to straighten up in the side mirror and caught sight of an approaching pack of girls dressed to the nines - well, dressed to the nines by West Virginian standards, anyway. He tilted his head as they passed him in a wave of overeager perfume and very tight jeans that were probably illegal in a couple of states. So maybe not exactly 'to the nines'.
John stood back up, immediately unbalanced because of his leg and narrowly missed making a complete idiot out of himself. Why was he doing this again? He snatched up his cane, because it was definitely the cane's fault he needed a cane in the first place.
Another pack of girls - and my God, how many were there in this town? - loitered outside the door. They seemed much less bubbly, but considerably more, well, available. One was talking animatedly to her friend, who was sitting boredly on the wheel stop and clearly wanted no part in the conversation. A third girl giggled and twined her hair around her fingers while a man old enough to be her father leaned against the building and ogled her.
"Can't remember the last time I seen you around town," the ogler said. "In fact I could'a sworn you went away to some fancy school upstate."
"Who me?" She angled herself closer to him. "Lived here all my life. But I might hafta get out more often if it means talkin' to fine gentlemen like yourself."
If John had still had two good legs, he would have kicked himself, because he caught himself thinking that that girl could do a lot better than that guy - for example, maybe himself, who was at least only old enough to be her uncle. Ohhh John Watson, no, he chided himself. She may not be jailbait now, but she was about ten minutes ago. Christ. He needed to get his head examined even more than he needed to get laid. Maybe both. But not by a teenager wearing too much blue eyeshadow.
The girl hunched over on the ground stared at him unblinkingly the whole time he approached. She wasn't impressed with him, it seemed. There was something about her stare that made John want to put a door between himself and it as soon as possible, and he just tried not to limp too much as he did that.
As soon as he crossed the threshold into the little town hall he was assaulted by sound, music, and the microphoned caller rising over everything with random, made-up sounding dance figures. "Yip and holler and everybody swing!" he shouted, and everyone on the dance floor shifted in sync like a school of fish.
The band was of the old school by way of the bluegrass conventions - string bass, banjo, guitar, and a fiddler who looked like he was trying to saw off his own arm to get out of a bear trap. Dancers' feet kept the rhythm - truer than the band did - and John was a little in awe of the layer of flying feet across the floor.
The low-ceilinged room was dimly lit but warm and welcoming as could be. A sizeable crowd of people were dancing in the middle of the cleared out space while others milled about on the sidelines next to folded up chairs, mingling under old photographs and framed lists of the dead.
Clearly Mrs. Hudson wasn't only one who'd had news of John's arrival. People whispered to one another and cast furtive glances his way as he walked past.
It was a strange sensation to be in Stanger as an adult - all his memories of the place were confused by a childhood filter. He supposed he'd never really thought of it as a real place where grownups lived. What to do now that he was one?
Rising above frantic, indistinct fiddling, the caller shouted, "Circle home don't take all day!" The whirling pairs made another formation, as precise as fighter jets over the base.
"You're that doctor, ain'tcha?" The man who had spoken appeared seemingly out of nowhere and smiled broadly at him. He had stubble on his face and an expression that seemed stuck in a perpetual smirk.
"Doctor who - ? Oh, uh. Yes. Dr. John Watson." John had to switch his cane to his left hand just to shake hands. The man's shirt was unbuttoned halfway, and it made John feel awkward and overdressed.
"Pleased to meet ya. Doctor," the man said, gleaming at him. It was disconcerting.
"Likewise, uh - ?"
"Just call me Tanner," he said quietly, leaning closer to compensate for the noisy music. "Now, you bein' new in town, bet you don't know about the murders."
". . . Murders."
"Yep. Every couple months some poor young woman turn up dead, seems. And the cops, well they don't know what it is. Tell you what, though, it's high time there was some excitement in this town. You cain't say it ain't at least excitin'."
"Yeah, I heard about that. So we got a Jack the Ripper, maybe, just killing folks for the hell of it? A local chapter of the Manson Family up the road from me?"
Tanner laughed, which was soft and at odds with his rugged appearance. "God only knows, Johnny, God only knows. But just between you an' me, what kinda tenderfoot thinks it's a good idea to wander around these here woods at night without a gun? You know?" He laughed and clapped John forcefully on the shoulder.
John's involuntarily exhale would hopefully pass for a laugh. "Yeah." He'd killed people before, but whatever sense of duty or self-defense or plain necessity he'd felt at the time had long since dissipated and left him with a sick twist in the pit of his stomach.
Everyone he'd killed had thought the same things he had about duty and honor and the reasons why someone slightly different had to die. He wanted to know, suddenly, what it looked like inside a Vietnamese veterans center. Even if they didn't have any such thing, people would still have gathered around tables at cafeterias and talked quietly amongst themselves in the post-war corporate jungle. Were there flag smothered walls that you didn't know how to feel about, like here? Did they periodically shove all the clutter of chairs and medals and memories off to the side to make room for normal, untroubled people to dance heedlessly into the night, too?
"Welp!" Tanner said, hand sliding over John's shoulder before he removed it. "It was a pleasure. See you round, Johnny."
John watched him go, still preoccupied with fleeting thoughts of war. No gruesome, explicit flashbacks - just a permeating sense of the way people died so easily in chokingly hot, gorgeously lush foreign valleys. And maybe these valleys weren't so different.
He shook himself and waded through the crowd again, figuring he might have better luck dealing with someone less . . . peppy. He spotted a man standing alone in the corner in decidedly lived in clothes that stretched over his prominent muscles. He had a kind face, though, and his long hair was tied neatly back. Everyone around him shot him dirty looks, which only made John more curious about him.
Someone nearly ran him over, just then, on her determined path through the crowd.
"Excuse me, miss," John said, bending painfully to pick his cane back up. The girl who turned around to face him was the apathetic one who couldn't even be bothered to stand, outside. He immediately regretted addressing her, and braced himself for whatever snide remark was forthcoming. "Do you, uh, do you know who that fella in the corner is? It's just I'm new in town, and - "
"I know."
"Um." John frowned. Her face was completely blank. "Okay, so - "
"I know you're the soldier back from war as just moved in. Everybody does. New people are the most interesting thing that can happen, round here."
John laughed, because her face still hadn't changed and he thought she might be kidding around. She didn't react to it, though. "Yeah, know what you mean. So, who's - ?"
"Lonnie Martelli. He's an ex-con, and people treat him like that means he's the devil. Everyone thinks he used to beat his wife, but his wife is a total bitch, so who knows. They say he's a draft dodger, too."
"Right, so - "
As if sensing the awkwardness of the moment, the caller chimed in with an inexplicable, "Chase that rabbit, chase that squirrel!" Dancers broke into a different formation, couples moving up and down a double line, before splitting into a less formal arrangement. Couples were playfully mismatched this time and gender didn't seem to be a factor. Women's fluffy petticoats mingled with jeans and longtail shirts, and the stamp of boots got louder.
"Peace," the girl said tonelessly, already walking away.
John stood there blinking after her in disbelief, then collected himself, then resumed disbelief when he caught sight of a woman making her way over to him through the crowd. She smiled when he caught her eye, and he couldn't help giving her once over - legs for days and wavy hair and no ring and how the hell was a woman that beautiful not married?
Then again, there was a war on.
How was he to go about charming a lady, anyway? He'd been a decent dancer way back when, back when you could listen to both the old-timey stuff and rock'n'roll, back when a knack for flat-footin' wasn't so incompatible with the Elvis hips if you played it just right. Well, John had never been all that handsome and he'd always been kinda short, so he had to have something. And that was one thing he didn't have anymore. He'd be very happy to live the rest of his life without ever seeing again a pretty face full of pity.
He was glad she was approaching him, to save himself the embarrassment of limping over to grovel at her feet or whatever he would've ended up doing. She held out a limp hand for him to shake and introduced herself: "Hello, there."
"John Watson." John shook her hand. "They don't have names in this town?"
She laughed. "My name is Mary Russell, if you want to know, but I wasn't fixin' on being quite so formal with you."
"Oh?" John smiled a little. "What were you fixin' on?"
She laughed again. "Well, John Watson, I heard you was new in town. Word spreads fast in Stanger, which you'll find out soon enough, I reckon. And well, to be honest with you, I was wanting to spread some of the Word, myself."
John raised his eyebrows. "You can't know me all that well, ma'am, 'cause if you did, you'd know I grew up not far from here, and as such I happen to know all about our Lord Jesus Christ and what he gone and done about my sins."
"My mistake," Mary smiled. "And although you're not far off, there, I was meaning more in relation to the troubles what been plaguing our town, of late."
"The murders? I heard."
"I'm sure you did. Hard to avoid it. But I just wanted you to know you ain't like to be in danger, yourself. It's only been those as deserved it been killed, so far."
"I see," John said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "If you don't mind my asking, how is it they deserved gettin' killed?"
"The lot of them didn't have much in common apart from living sinful lives. One of old Mrs. McKenna's kin," And Mary drops to a whisper to say, "He was a hippie," before continuing: "Good-looking boy, though. Shame about that anti American nonsense. He turned up dead not three months ago. Gruesome as all hell, it was, tore apart limb from limb. Then there was a colored girl come into town a few years back, and when she was found beat and bloodied out in Gregson Woods, well, nobody was surprised. I heard tell she was a prostitute, back in Knoxville. You only had to look at her to see it was the truth. That was, oh, back around Christmas last year, I do believe. The list goes on. God rest their souls, of course, but well, I ain't sure if He'll see fit for them to rest in heaven. Lord knows they had it comin', and if this purgin' of their vile, un-Christian ways ain't God's work then I don't know what is."
John cleared his throat. "I hear you. Well, Miss Russell, it was a pleasure makin' your acquaintance," he said, then hurried to leave before she had a chance to be offended. He had a clearer understanding of her ringless status now, at least.
John bumped into someone not ten paces into his daring escape, mumbled an apology and backed up. Never went smooth. How come it never went smooth? At least he hadn't dropped his cane, this time. He was about ready to give up on the whole pointless charade and come crawling back to Mrs. Hudson with her innocuous chatter and fantastic home cooking.
The caller, in the background: "One more change and home you go!"
John was just trying to locate the exit when he felt eyes on him. Again. And these eyes felt different. He'd gotten paranoid during his tour of duty, and with good reason, but this time he was sure someone was staring at him. He turned around slowly and confirmed his suspicions.
Lestrade was nearby, trying to look as if he wasn't there in an official capacity, and he shot John a half-attentive friendly little wave, but it was clear he was really focused on a rather heated three-way exchange between his deputy - amazingly enough, a very pretty dark-skinned woman - and a tall, thin man in a long black coat. John couldn't hear a word of it over the music, even as he came close to the only familiar face in the room. The latter two looked like only the long arm of the law in between them was keeping the fisticuffs at bay. But the argument ended abruptly as the man obviously tuned her out mid-insult and focused all his attention straight on John, staring openly at him.
And indeed, after another minute of awkward standoff the man pushed past his companions. They looked none too pleased with his rudeness, and the woman gestured after him while the sheriff nodded and waved her off impatiently.
The man walked up to John, all pale skin and dark clothes. A pair of piercingly blue eyes stared down at him, which was even more intimidating up close. "Dr. John Watson, Army captain with a purple heart but a physically sound leg. You had a private practice in a much more populated area, but your roots are definitely here. Your daddy's been dead for years, but you're still desperate to do good by him. You'd planned on taking up residence on your family's land, but that went south pretty quick, so you're making do in a sorry excuse for a trailer out on Route 221."
"I . . ."
The man rolled his eyes, exasperated. "It's a small town. People talk."
John frowned, because it was pretty clear already that this guy wasn't someone who talked to people willingly.
It was right about then that someone came up to talk to him.
"Made it into town at last, Sherlock? How long as it been? A couple years at least by my last count . . ."
"It's none of your business, Mycroft."
"Oh but it is. Or are you bored of having a roof over your head, already?"
"Don't you have anything better to do than pester me? I think there's a box of donuts over by the bar with your name on it."
While they sparred, John had a chance to catch up. The man who had first talked to him - talked at him, more like - was dressed very warmly for being indoors, and although his attire was definitely weather appropriate, but it still looked very out of place. The cut of his coat was much too ritzy. He wore dress pants instead of jeans, and it wasn't like he'd just come from church.
But it wasn't just his clothes that made him stand out. There was a quiet stillness about him that was intriguing. You could practically feel sharp, restless energy bubbling just beneath the surface.
The other one was even more out of place, if that was possible. No one else would wear a suit like that to a place like this. No one else would even have a suit like that. Probably cost as much as John's trailer - and around here, that just wasn't done.
"What are you doing here anyway? Not enough drama to keep you occupied in D.C.?"
Mycroft smiled. "In a way, that's why I'm here. But you do need checking up on, Sherlock."
Sherlock. Stanger was a damn small town, and even a big city probably wouldn't have two people with a name like that.
John hadn't been included in the conversation, and he should've just moved on, but he was frozen to the spot. It was fascinating to watch this Mr. Sherlock character yammer on because it seemed like he just never, ever stopped.
"Oh, just stay out of it, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. "I promise I'll come crying to you if I spill any milk."
"It's not actually milk that concerns me, it's the fact that for once, I actually really could use your - "
"Not interested, thanks," Sherlock said, then noticed John again. "You've been surpassingly rude, you know. Interrupting my conversation with John, here."
It was only then that Mycroft took notice of John, at all. He smiled and shook his hand firmly.
"Mycroft Holmes," he said, ingratiating from head to toe. "Pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. I have a feeling it'll be good to have a medical man close at hand, considering the . . . " He made a face. ". . . unsavory events of the last few months."
"And you, sir," John said. "It's just a job, you understand. What do you do?"
"Oh, I'm in the hotel business," Mycroft said vaguely, and Sherlock snorted in the background. Mycroft gave him a glare which Sherlock didn't back down from for a second. "I will be in touch," he said, then nodded to John and took his leave.
"So," John said lamely, "You haven't introduced yourself properly."
"The name's Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh? Oh. Okay. Got it." Official, then. This was his eccentric recluse of a neighbor. John barely suppressed a hysterical giggle to think of how far off-base his mental image had been. It must've been Sherlock's unblinking gaze that had John so out of sorts. "Why were you, uh . . ." How to put this diplomatically?
"Staring at you? Well, you are the talk of the town." Sherlock had very pronounced cheekbones, and the shadowy lighting of the hall only served to accentuate them, and God those eyes were just impossibly blue. The man didn't look like he belonged to this world.
"O-kay . . ." John swallowed. "Well, most people do seem to know that. They don't seem to know quite so many details as you do, though. So . . . guess I'm just wonderin' . . . "
"How the hell do I know so much about you?" Sherlock smirked. "It's not rocket science. I merely observe."
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock ignored him. "What are you even doing at a dance if you're not planning on dancing?"
"What makes you think I'm not - ?"
Sherlock's eyes flicked over him then, and John couldn't help feeling self conscious. "Shoes," he said, then tilted his head and added, "Sleeves."
"I. Just. What?" John had expected something more like That pronounced limp of yours was kind of a giveaway. That would've made, you know, sense.
"Those aren't exactly what you'd call dancing shoes."
"It's not tap dancing, you know," John said. "Sleeves?"
"Not rolled up."
John laughed. "Don't see much need to roll up your sleeves for dancing. Last I checked, that's what you call a figure of speech."
"So you were planning on dancing."
"Well, I mean . . ." John was withering under that relentless gaze. ". . . well, my leg. So."
"We'll see about that."
"I mean, I - what?"
And before John could think Sherlock had dragged him out onto the dance floor.
It was like he'd timed it exactly so the moment they set foot on the floor the caller was shouting a new set of dance figures out. John was too disoriented to notice what he'd said, but he heard it when Sherlock leaned closer and said, "Follow my lead."
Sherlock spun John around, and John was surprised by how quickly he remembered the steps. He waited for a lull in the music to ask Sherlock, "You know this dance, huh?"
"No."
John laughed. "Right."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I watched. I've been here for long enough to understand the basics."
"Oh, really," John drawled, watching Sherlock execute every step with casual precision. "How long?"
"The sheriff's bellyaching definitely doesn't demand my full attention. I must've been watching everyone dancing for a good five minutes, which is more than enough."
"Um."
The caller shouted, "Circle four for half the night!"
John could barely keep up, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own, and whenever he got a good look at Sherlock he ended up laughing, because although Sherlock was kind of obnoxiously talented and that five minutes thing had obviously been a joke, his stoic, sullen face was nothing short of hilarious.
John had to detour to dance with one of the neighboring ladies, who turned out not to be a lady. The stranger's face ran through a myriad of expressions: befuddlement, shock, mild disgust, and finally a very staunch and manly denial.
Luckily the music changed and John was back dancing with Sherlock again. As he linked their arms and spun them, Sherlock leaned in to say, "You swing like thunder, huh?"
"I . . . " John had an exasperated tirade on the tip of his tongue but ended up giggling instead.
The caller shouted: "Hands on wrists and swing like thunder!"
"Ah. Gotcha." John grinned. "And hell yes I can."
The music swirled around the dancers, faster and faster and the people were a blur and Sherlock's face. This was so ridiculous, and things like this never happened to him. John almost ran into another couple when the music stuttered to a flourishing finish.
Sherlock was standing there, ridiculous in his coat, watching him intently. "How's your leg?"
John was still out of breath. "My what?" he gasped.
It was then that the crowd parted and the sheriff came charging through, determination writ on his features. He was not to be messed with, but John found himself wishing Sherlock would mess with him, just to see what would happen.
"Sherlock," the sheriff said. "You'll be wanting to see this."
Sherlock sighed. "Oh, what now, you can't seriously - "
"Something new, this time."
Sherlock paused mid-rant and looked at him. "You sure?"
"Come and see for yourself," the sheriff shrugged, then turned and left without saying anything more.
Sherlock did the same, and left John standing alone in the crowd feeling suddenly bereft, and -
"You're a doctor," came Sherlock's subsonic voice. John turned around to find its source and had to tilt his head back just to meet Sherlock's eyes, he'd been standing so close behind him, "You're an Army doctor."
"Yes," John said slowly. Then because Sherlock was still studying his face, more confidently, "Yes."
Sherlock pretended to consider this. "Hm. So you're acclimated to violence?"
John drew himself up. "Seen my share of action. Too much if you ask me."
Sherlock's mouth twitched. "So you coming or what?"
John's face broke into a grin the same time Sherlock's did, and he followed him with some difficulty through the relentlessly lively crowd. God they were boring.
"This what you do?" John said, catching up. "You just hold court at community events and let people come to you instead of actually socializing?"
"Works pretty well, don't you think?"
"Guess that depends on what you're tryin' to do," John said, following Sherlock as though tied to him by gravity. Lestrade and the deputy were just getting in their car outside, parked up close as it was in the special little gravel parking lot.
"You'll be riding with me," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question. John was already figuring he probably didn't ask too many of those.
"Um . . . "
"Lestrade and Donovan are taking up the front seat in their car. You're new in town, so you won't want to be seen in the back seat of the sheriff's car. People will talk."
John stopped up short when he saw the vehicle they were approaching. "Yeah, like dancing with me didn't get 'em . . . And they won't if they see us in . . . that?" How the hell could he have missed that in the parking lot before? It was probably 50s, pretty well-kept, long and black and be-finned and be-chromed. It would have been kind of stylish if it wasn't a fucking hearse.
"People already talk about me, always drawing completely wrong conclusions," Sherlock said. The lights of the lot and headlights around him cast his eyes a cool silver, and John thought he saw some amusement there.
"Well, I sure as hell don't want to be ridin' in the back seat of this one!"
"Is the passenger seat acceptable?"
"I reckon it'll have to be."
Sherlock nodded, and soon they were following the sheriff's car out of town, past the taverns with the trucks and motorcycles, past the railroad yards and the coal loaders and slowly up a hillside, as houses dwindled, streetlights disappeared entirely, and the grade grew steeper.
Later that night, as the band was packing up their gear, the banjo player found an abandoned cane propped against a folding chair. He helpfully turned it in to the janitor, and never gave it another moment's thought for the rest of his life.
***
Chapter 3