I've wanted to have Sherlock and John spend some time in my hometown, but couldn't find a way to do it until this story bit me and wouldn't let go.
Warnings for references to and linked images of skulls, car crashes, violent imagery, crime scenes.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to walk them and feed them and return them when I'm done.
The case brought them to Pittsburgh because of the victim's shoes, found in London, but encrusted with a unique mix of gravel, slag, and Monongahela River mud found nowhere else on earth. The trans-Atlantic flight from Heathrow through New York to Pittsburgh International, as well as the ensuing chase of the killer up the South Side Slopes (my God, Sherlock, how steep are these hills?) had left them both with a desperate need for rest. John wanted nothing more than to simply walk along the river trails, stretch his muscles, perhaps take a trip into the Strip District to do a little shopping, but Sherlock had other ideas.
"The Andy Warhol Museum?" He stared at the brochure in Sherlock's hand, pilfered from the hotel lobby. "Sherlock, since when do you care about art?"
Sherlock huffed at him. "Warhol is a singular genius. A hoarder, a collector, a documentarian, a new media fanatic. The man celebrated the vulgar, the macabre, and the sensational. What more could I ask for in an artist? And besides, his Skull and Disaster series are on display, and I missed them at the Tate Modern when they were there last year."
John just smiled and shook his head. This man had continuously surprised him from the day they met; the sudden discovery that Sherlock was a Pop Art fan was downright timid compared to the things he knew about his friend. "Right."
The museum, just across the Allegheny River from their hotel, was an old, repurposed warehouse, seven floors of ornately carved, cream granite. From the sapphire blue entryway, one of Warhol's last self-portraits loomed over them, Andy in his signature spiky wig, the entire surface awash in red. At the sight of the taxidermied Great Dane by the cloak room, Sherlock's eyes shined with glee. John hadn't seen Sherlock this excited by a museum since they visited the Mütter Museum's collection of skulls.
Starting from the top, they worked their way down, Sherlock savoring every floor. He interrogated gallery attendants about the Piss Paintings, asking them if they observed continued oxidation of the urine on the copper surface (no, Sherlock, we are not trying that at home).
The Skulls gallery was a study in contrasts, silkscreened human skulls in garish color combinations: turquoise and pink, lime green and canary yellow, filling the walls with technicolor bones.
"More friends of yours?" John asked.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, pointing at the painting. "Look. Do you see it, in the shadow?"
John peered at the canvas, studying the surface. "The head. The profile of the shadow, it's a baby's head!"
"A play on the classic veritas theme. Life as the shadow of death. Brilliant."
In the Disasters gallery, John thought Sherlock would nearly explode from delight. The room was filled with painting after painting of death: crime scene photos, ambulance crashes, mug shots of mobsters, people caught in the act of defenestration, newspaper images of food poisoning cases (more clostridium botulinum, John!). Sherlock practically salivated as he flitted from painting to painting, excitedly muttering under his breath, his coat swirling around him. He came to a stop in front of the central painting: a car accident outside of a house—a man impaled on a telephone pole, his flaming, wrecked car at the bottom, a man casually walking in the background.
John swallowed hard, pushing down the edge of nausea in his throat. Even after all of the death he had seen with Sherlock and in Afghanistan, there were still times when the sight of a dead body turned his stomach a bit. He watched Sherlock's fingers hover over the painting's details as he deduced the image: "Man caught in an accident, traveling at a high rate of speed, slammed into the pole. He wasn't wearing a seat belt, was ejected from the car, flipped end-over-end, then impaled on the telephone pole."
No matter how often he watched Sherlock work, John never got tired of seeing Sherlock explain a crime scene. "And the man walking?"
"Just a bystander."
John grinned. "You know, if you ever need to find a different job, you'd make an excellent tour guide."
"A consulting docent?" Sherlock smirked. "Please, John. You know I would frighten the children."
After a bit of touring together, the two of them separated into their own paths. Sherlock busily studied the Rorschach paintings, comparing them to real Rorschach images on his phone and trying to determine what he saw in the oversized inkblots; while John wandered into an adjacent, small gallery, filled with dimly lit line drawings.
John let out a contented sigh. This was more his speed, these quiet artworks: soft lines of women at produce trucks, sketches of ikebana arrangements, a warmly rendered living room with crumpled chairs and earthy colors that reminded him of Baker Street.
One piece captured John's attention the most: a line drawing of a young man, done in ballpoint pen, with the long, slightly alien face; expressive, wide eyes; heart-shaped mouth; and unruly curls he had come to know intimately over the past year. The man's face was covered in stamped images of flying swallows, smiling moons, and shooting stars, reminding John of the night they chased after the Golem, Sherlock gazing up into the night (beautiful, isn't it?).
The memory of Sherlock's face, softened by starlight, made something warm unfurl inside of John, and he imagined what Sherlock's face would look like with these celestial creatures gently drawn on it, what Sherlock's skin would feel like if he traced each of those shapes with his fingers... John smiled a little to himself, surprised at the way his body felt suddenly at ease at the thought. God, how did I find this impossible, beautiful man? he wondered. What does he see in me? How did I get so lucky? And how in the hell did I ever think I wanted differently than this?
"John!" Sherlock's voice boomed through the gallery. "Come, we have more to see—there are the most wonderful collection of teeth molds and the mummified foot in the archives!"
John stared back into the young man's beautiful, alien eyes, and chased off after his flatmate.
"Sherlock, you cannot take one of the Time Capsules home with you!" John pushed him out of the small archive area, the glass doors shutting behind him. "You can't just say they're for a case and try to bully the archivist into letting you have one."
"But Warhol kept every single piece of ephemera he ever touched! Ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, letters, photographs, receipts, diaries, gifts, art! Just think of all I could deduce of his life from just one box."
"No."
"John..."
"No." John stood, hands on hips, in his classic no-nonsense stance.
Sherlock simmered, his lips thin and sulking. "Fine."
"Cheer up," John said. "I've got some boxes left in my closet back home. I'll let you root through those, if it'll make you feel better."
Sherlock hummed. "Already done that. Your collection of Doctor Who trading cards and James Bond comics was quite enlightening."
John just shook his head. "Why am I not surprised you went through my things? And don't knock my collections. If you can collect all those ridiculous Hello Kitty dolls, then I can have my cards."
"They were for a case."
"Right. I'll be sure to tell that to the Yarders the next time I see them. Come on, you." John pulled him downstairs, into the final set of galleries.
The room was small: white walls, cork floors, and filled with large mylar balloons , shaped like oversized pillows. John read off the wall text as Sherlock stepped inside: "Silver Clouds, helium-filled, mylar film, kinetic art. " John pushed one of the floating clouds around him, his grinning reflection cast in silver as the two dozen pillows slipped by. Sherlock poked at a nearby pillow with his finger, letting the balloon bounce off his skin.
"Oh, this is brilliant," John said, his face now the one split in a wide smile.
"Really?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "I hadn't thought you were the one for such...childlike art."
"What? I like it. It's...whimsical. You mean it's not one of your favorites? I thought you liked all of his work."
"I am allowed to have certain works that do not appeal to me. And this one does not. It's too...fluffy, for my taste, even counting the idea of using helium as an art medium."
"Well, I like it. Reminds me of the balloon animals from my birthday parties when I was small." The edge of John's mouth curled up wickedly. John flicked a few clouds in Sherlock's direction, the shapes grazing Sherlock's coat.
"John, stop it, you're not some teenaged girl in a pillow fight at a sleepover. And the damage that could be done with one of these is so small that—"
John smacked a cloud into Sherlock's face, his pale skin leaving a smudgeprint of oil on the surface as it bounced away. Sherlock's eyes grew wide in shock, then he quickly snagged a passing cloud and flung it at John, narrowly missing his head as John ducked. "You'll pay for that, Doctor Watson."
"Ahem." The gallery attendant in the corner gave them a small glare. The two of them froze, then hung their heads in mock shame, grinning devilishly.
"God, I can't bring you anywhere, Sherlock."
"What? You're the one who started it, assaulting me with a large, deadly weapon."
"Oh, yes, of course. Death by floating silver pillow. Got it. Right."
Their gazes locked, and they descended into a fit of giggles.
"Come here, you. I need to rest my leg a bit." John lay down in the center of the room, stretching himself out. "Don't worry. The floor's clean enough for your coat."
Sherlock lay down beside him, his long limbs spread, his long coat pooling around him. Sherlock stared at the clouds as they floated past, their reflections side by side in the mylar.
John pointed up at the clouds, his voice going young and singsong. "That one looks like a horsie, and that one looks like a puppy..."
"Horsie? Really, for a man with an education such as yours, I would think you would have a much more evolved vocabulary."
John smirked, his light laughter fluttering among the clouds. "And that one looks like a doctor, and that one looks like a sulking detective."
"I never sulk. I ponder. I contemplate."
John rolled his eyes. "Sure. Whatever you say."
"Mmmm."
They stilled for a bit, catching their breath, letting the silver shapes float lazily by. Sherlock was quiet, watching the trailing pattern of them bounce from wall to wall, buoyed by the fan in the corner. As he concentrated his vision, he saw the movement of the clouds transform into an infinite shifting puzzle: a tight cluster of them in one corner, others loose and scattered; some lower than others (more oxygen, less helium); their different textures (some smoother, newer; others crumpled, must be older).
The thrill of observation fascinated him suddenly, this endless, complex mystery wrapped in something so ordinary and delightful. He stared closer, past the pattern, and into the images: he and John, reflected side by side: tall, thin, lanky, pale and dark at once, vs. short, compact, sandy-tanned, weathered, smiling back at Sherlock with the same gentle, open, youthful smile John gave to him in the Vauxhall Arches when he gazed up at the sky (doesn't mean I can't appreciate it).
The thought of him and John together, floating, like the sun and moon among the stars, bonded to each other, pressed skin-to skin made something in Sherlock's heart spark with a brilliant delight. How did this amazing man come into my life? he thought. What does he see in me? Why does he stay with me? What mysteries does he still hold?
"You've gone all quiet." John turned to him, frowning a bit. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Oh—just studying the art." Sherlock turned to face John, staring into his warm, blue eyes. "Admiring the view." He paused, the words, for once, stuck in his throat. "I think this may be the best art of all."
John stared hard for a moment, blinking as Sherlock's words washed over him, then his face relaxed, the hint of a smile on his lips. John reached out across the floor and took Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock's fingers tensed in surprise for a second, then eased into John's grip, interlocking with John's.
Above their heads, twenty-four John Watsons leaned close to twenty-four Sherlock Holmeses, bringing two dozen golden lips to two dozen pale ones. "Me too, Sherlock," John whispered. "Me too."
Thank you for reading! Some author's notes:
Edited to add: The lovely Anke (Khorazir on Tumblr) has made a beautiful drawing, "Watching clouds," to illustrate this story: khorazir (dot) tumblr (dot) com /post/11665930402/watching-clouds-inspired-by-afrogeekgoddess. Anke, I am incredibly grateful to you!
Since FF (dot) net doesn't let me post links without a heck of lot of hassle, if you're interested in viewing the Warhol pieces I reference in this story, please visit my story either may AO3 (Archive of Our Own) page (easily Google-able), or my Tumblr page: afrogeekgoddess (dot) tumblr (dot) com, just click on the "My Sherlock Fics" tab, images are embedded as links in the story.
The title is a play off of "visual thinking strategies," a method that museum educators use to help people explore and analyze art. Gotta have some pedagogical meta.
The taxidermied Great Dane, named Cecil, stood at the entrance of Warhol's Factory in New York City for almost 20 years.
Warhol was indeed a hoarder, and put much of his everyday ephemera into over 600 ordinary cardboard boxes he deemed Time Capsules, the contents of some of the boxes on display in the Archives.
Warhol received the mummified foot as a gift, presumably for not only its unusual nature, but because of Warhol's fascination for feet and shoes (reflected in his drawings and paintings of them).
The clostridium botulinum refers to Warhol's Tuna Fish Disaster, a silkcreened image of a newspaper article about several who died from eating contaminated tuna fish.