A/N: Hello, guys! So since I got so many lovely reviews for 'Dear John', I wanted to try another Sherlock fanfiction. Hope that you all enjoy and that this is a little historically accurate. Please read and review!
It was going to be a year without summer. John Watson, hunched in the passenger seat of his father's ancient Trabant, stared miserably out the window at the passing countryside. Although the scenery was beautiful-albeit a little gloomy-he couldn't shake the feeling of deep melancholy that had been stalking him since they left London. He should have been back in Tottenham, playing football with his mates and chasing girls. Not driving miles out into the godforsaken country with his father. Why couldn't the man have gotten a job in the city? John thought that the sudden move had more to do with their empty flat, haunted with memories of Helen Watson, than with a job offering in someplace called 'Bakerfieild Manor'
Shortly after four o'clock, they passed through a gloomy little hamlet called Milltown. The sky was already darkening and a bank of storm clouds had rolled in from the north.
"Almost there," George said, his voice hopeful. It was the first time he had spoken in several hours, and John glanced over at his father in surprise. He sounded lighter, happier, and John got the distinct impression that the farther they got from London the better off his father would be.
"Can't wait," he muttered. The sarcasm was luckily lost on his father, who kept glancing out the window and was alternating between taking his eyes off the road to squint at the map and muttering to himself.
"Dad," John asked carefully, "are we lost?"
George shook his head vehemently and whistled tunelessly, the way he always did when they were hopelessly disoriented. John remained silent as his father drove up and down the same road several times and then made an illegal turn onto a narrower lane.
"I think this is it," he muttered. "Yes, this must be it."
John's eyes widened. An enormous gate stretched between two stone pillars, and visible through the ornate wrought iron was a palatial home surrounded by expansive green fields. A gravel drive curved ahead of them.
"I guess we'll just wait here for someone to come let us in," said George offhandedly. John nodded silently and stared out the front window. He could see a pair of sleek horses roaming in the field behind the gate. After a few minutes in awkward silence, John noticed a tall, thin man walking towards the gate. He wondered if this was the man of the house, but upon closer inspection realized that it was actually an older man in full butler garb. He pulled some kind of lever on the side of the gate and it swung open, allowing the Watson's old car to slide through.
"My name is Jeeves," the man announced in a slightly nasal London accent. "I'm the head butler at Bakerfield."
Are you joking? A butler named Jeeves? John wondered. He refrained from laughter, because Jeeves didn't seem much like the type to kid around.
"Nice to meet you," George said, offering a hand through the rolled down window. "I'm the new groom."
Jeeves stared down his slightly crooked nose at them. It was quite obvious that he thought himself far above the Watsons.
"The stables are that way. Your quarters are above the main building." He pointed towards a huddle of low buildings a quarter mile from the house. George nodded, gulped audibly and drove forwards. In the passenger seat, John clenched and unclenched his fingers.
Their 'quarters' turned out to be a single drafty room above the main stables that smelled strongly of hay and horses. John didn't terribly mind, because the heavy odor reminded him of his childhood watching his father hand walk horses at Greater London Raceway. However, it was quite chilly in the room and there was only a thin blanket on the lumpy cot by the window. In the end, John dragged a slightly crusty horse blanket over the thin wool spread and lay there in the half-light, his stomach aching in hunger. His father was down in the stable, talking to the other grooms. John lay there in the dark for a long time before he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Again, I'm no expert on the 60's and my mom doesn't remember it...plus I'm American so I have little to no knowledge of British pop culture during the time. If I got something wrong, please tell me! :) Thanks guys!