Okay, so this story is based around the story by Arthur Conan Doyle called "The Bascombe Valley Mystery"
The mystery will be present in the story, but it won't be the absolute center of things, as this is a Johnlock fic. I basically read the story and thought it would be fun to make a modern adaptation in a fic, so here it is!
Breakfast at the Watson house wasn't a cheery affair. In fact, nothing at the Watson house was a cheery affair as of late. Their marriage was crumbling around them. They rarely ate together anymore and they spent their nights watching crap telly at either ends of the couch. They hadn't had sex for two months.
This morning was like most others. John entered the kitchen with a grunt that meant, "Good morning" and Mary glanced up at him from her coffee cup, not bothering to voice a reply. A plate of toast was waiting for him as well as a lukewarm cup of coffee, and John sat in his chair and ate it in silence while Mary got ready for work and eventually left. This was every morning since the loss of the baby.
John had always questioned his happiness in the marriage, especially after finding out Mary's "little secret". Still, they had now gone from acting like not-so-close friends to acting rather hostile toward each other, especially on Mary's part. After the loss of their child, everything holding the relationship together seemed to collapse. John sighed and wiped his face. He didn't know how they were going to fix this. He didn't even know if this could be fixed. As he was clearing his dishes, the counter vibrated.
his phone.
he dried his wet hands and reached for it. Upon looking at it, his heart leaped at a message from Sherlock.
Case. -SH
Details? -JW
No time. Will take a few days. Meet me at King's Cross ASAP -SH
John sighed. This would be at least a two-day affair. He hastily texted Mary before hurrying upstairs to pack a few necessities.
Got a case. Probably won't be home for a few days. love you. -JW
He knew she wouldn't be happy with such short notice, but he didn't care. He grabbed his keys and walked out the door, an overnight bag over his shoulder.
"Good, John, you've arrived right on time." Sherlock greeted him as he stepped onto the platform. John was a bit surprised to to see that Lestrade was there with him, looking tired and a bit cranky. He thought it rude to ask why Greg was coming along, so he let it be and allowed Sherlock to lead them into their compartment. John and Sherlock both sat by the window across from each other, while Lestrade sat on the opposite end of Sherlock's side, by the door. They had barely sat down before Sherlock started explaining the case.
"Lestrade informed me of it last night. A girl from Bascombe called The Yard, trying to find me. She obviously doesn't read my website. It's an apparant murder case"
His eyes lit up with that familiar fire when he said this and Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Just get on with it, Sherlock" he said exasperatedly.
"Gladly" Sherlock replied dryly before continuing.
"Charles McCarthey. He is a man from Bascombe- where we will arrive in about three hours time- who was murdered by Bascombe Lake just last week. He left his house around three in the afternoon last Friday, his destination unknown. A gamekeeper witnessed him walking down the road, and then witnessed his son, James, follow him some five minutes later with a rifle in hand. He didn't think anything of it until he heard about what happened that evening, from his wife."
Sherlock paused, obviously not finished, and waited from any questions or comments from John. When there weren't any, he continued.
"A sixteen year old girl named Patty Moran, who is the daughter of the local motel owner, says she was in the woods near the lake when she saw the McCartheys- both junior and senior- arguing. She said it was harsh and she thought it would get violent. She ran home, then, to her mother to tell her that the McCartheys were fighting. Soon after she told her mother, James arrived (The motel is closest to the lake) saying he had found his father dead in the woods. The local police investigated to find Charles McCarthey dead from blunt force trauma to the head. Naturally, the boy was arrested"
Sherlock sat back in his chair to show that he was finished, and John looked at him with his lips slightly ajar.
"I don't understand. Why are we here, then? It's been solved!"
"The woman who called me was convinced that he didn't do it, and demanded for me to contact Sherlock. What was I supposed to do?" Said Lestrade, annoyed.
"What, so we are going all the way to bloody Bascombe just to appease this woman?" answered John increduously. This was mad. Absolutely mad.
"John, I am quite sure the young man is innocent. We are going out to Bascombe to prove it." answered the detective calmly. He almost looked amused at John's anger.
"Sherlock, how could he possibly be innocent?" John asked, at his wit's end. Sherlock was much too impulsive for John's liking. For someone who claimed to not have feelings, he relied simply on impulse quite often.
"When he was arrested he was not in the least surprised or upset. On the contrary, he expressed his complete understanding of why he was accused. Most would take this as a confession, but this was followed immediately by a complete denial."
John just looked at him, dumbfounded, and Sherlock took this as an invitation to explain.
"Obviously if he were guilty, he would try and feign disbelief. By expressing his understanding of why he was arrested, it leads me to believe that he is innocent."
Lestrade rolled his eyes again and John thought this over in his head. It made sense. God, this man was bloody brilliant. Before he could voice this opinion, however, Sherlock seemed to have retired to his mind palace.
"This git is going to drive me crazy" mumbled Lestrade. "I'm going to go have a proper breakfast."
he left the compartment, grumbling as he went, and John couldn't help but chuckle. He looked at the detective who was seated right in front of him, and smiled.
His face was completely relaxed and his features soft. It was times like these when John really got to see the sheer beauty of his friend. He looked at him for a long while, almost in a trance. His eyes roaming over the raven hair, the sharp cheekbones, the alabaster skin, the defined cupid's bow, the elongated neck. The top two buttons of his light blue shirt were unbuttoned and John could almost see his chest-
Wait a second. Wait. A. Second.
He realized what he was doing and immediately shut his eyes, massaging his temples. This was getting to be too much.
I am married. Sherlock is my friend. I am NOT gay.
He looked up again. The detective's Adam's Apple moved down his neck as he swallowed and John shut his eyes once more.
I am not aroused right now. I am NOT aroused right now.
Not able to get Sherlock out of his head, he continued to repeat these thoughts until he drifted off to a light sleep from which he didn't wake from until they arrived at Bascombe.