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The Traveler: an act in five parts, A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Act 1

"Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror." -David Herbert Lawrence

In his travels, Sherlock had been in many cities. In the first place, the earth was practically barren between them, oceans of dirt and beige and boring. He just motorbiked through those plains, his coat whipping behind. The cities were the interesting bits, filled with architecture and denizens enough to fill the hours of time between sleep. Sherlock liked sleep. It was calm, quiet, soothing. It passed the time quickest between him and death.

He was from Holmesville, that was where Mummy had lived. It had been a pleasant place full of violin music and gardens. He had loved Mummy as much as he could love a person. Mummy would give him small puzzles and would smile and smooth out his curls when he solved them, telling him he was a good, intelligent boy, that she was proud of him, that he was loved absolutely.
And then she had died.
Holmesville had shriveled.

The Mycroft Neighborhood Association had taken over. Instead of gardens, there were plush townhouses and sky-rises. Bakeries of all sorts popped up in the more obscure corners and there was a single store full of umbrellas. Instead of violins, there was a steady hum of voices: people talking, debating, wanting. The only greenery was neat, clipped hedges with edges so sharp they could draw blood. In the town's very center, a huge weeping willow stood. The willow's trunk was gnarled, ancient, and scarred, twisting under the sidewalk to trip up the citizens. The Holmesville citizens were the most interesting, to Sherlock anyway. They all had multiples faces.

But before Sherlock could ever properly interview any of the citizens, Mycroft himself always found him, forced him to do something he did not want. It always made Holmesville's intermediate weather into a thunderstorm.
Thunderstorms hurt.
Sherlock did not like visiting Mycroft or Holmesville very much.

He visited Lestradeville the most. It was very close to Andersonvillle and Donovanville, which weren't very nice (both were not very populated, smelled of men's deodorant, and had too much sexual intrigue). Lestradeville had a pretty even balance of greenery and cityscape, a river running through the center that was perfect for fishing. Lestradeville also presented him with puzzles, more complicated than Mummy's. Sherlock could go into any apartment complex or shop and something was happening, some little mystery or riddle Sherlock could stretch his mind over. Sometimes the citizens of Lestradeville or more often of Donovanville or Andersonville tried to help Sherlock, but he would push them away. Their deductions were always wrong.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Sherlock could shout that into Lestradeville and everything would shut up like a clam, shutters clacked and doors locked. Sherlock tried to control himself, to not shout and only whisper, or blame it on Andersonville citizens getting in the way. Lestradeville's citizens were actually the most helpful in the puzzles.

Sherlock did not like to admit it, but Lestradeville was also the most comfortable city. It had a lab especially built for him and a violin shop that let him try every instrument he wanted. More prominent, father-like citizens were always kind, indulgent, caring, but also strict, keep Sherlock from going crazy with boredom, mad with waiting for it all to end. The more prominent wife- and mother-like citizens were flighty and slept around while caring for their children. Great multi-taskers, but made the husbands and fathers sad.
The other citizens had more varying characters, which made life more interesting.

But one day Sherlock was bored with it. Bored! He had lived like this for years now. He had taken to smashing lampposts, graffiting alleyways, running from room to room and not bothering to solve the puzzles, only shouting the most cutting of his deductions at the citizens. He blew up a whole row of fire hydrants. The police had angrily arrested him, cuffing him in a cell, a concerned father-citizen looking on.
Bored.
As soon as he was released, he got on his motorbike and rode. He rode on and on and on, hoping against hope to find something new, anything different.

That was how he ran into Watsonville. He had never been there before. He hadn't known it existed. No wait he did: in Lestradville's huge office building, there had been a few forms on the desk, something about a recruiting a new city into the country.
Sherlock parked his motorbike and began walking down an avenue. It was tidy and lined with trees, some bearing some fruit. Some of the fruit was overripe, others shriveled. Watonsville, Sherlock decided, was more a town than a city. None of the buildings were very tall. Stranger: not many people were walking about. His footsteps echoed.

He passed tea shops and thrift stores, one of which seemed to full of wooly jumpers. A giant hospital stood gleaming white. It was full of people. A town for the sick? Watsonville must have a very caring citizenry. This was greatly contrasted to the army camp next door, which was drilling new recruits. A very caring, very protective citizenry then. Lestradeville had an impressive (though somewhat disused) gym, but Sherlock had never seen an army training center. Watsonville's was smaller than the hospital though and Sherlock wondered if this was normal.

Sherlock found gardens too, which were a bit wild but in some haphazard order. Different areas were neater than others. One was a grand array of cactus and desert shrubs. The most impressive were the wildflowers and roses.

Soon Sherlock realized that Watsonville was rather vast and sprawling, a place that believed in suburbia. Holmesville was more tall than wide, the buildings looming over you as you walked. Lestradeville was also large, but more compact, keeping things together and closer, better to hide nooks and crannies. Watonsville had children playing in the street, some offspring loud and others quiet and watching. For some reason, the watchers worried Sherlock the most. They reminded him of himself too much.

Overall, Sherlock liked it here and he found a place to sleep for the night.

Watsonville was bright in the morning, seeming to hum him awake. The citizens seemed to all drink tea and eat toast. One came up to Sherlock and asked him to solve a rather complicated puzzle. Sherlock solved it in less than a minute and then began asking questions about the citizens and town.

The town began to come alive.

The very air seemed to hum in wonder. A group of citizens formed around him all grinning widely. The weather, which had been slightly cloudy since Sherlock had got here, became fully sunny, beams of warmth against Sherlock's pale skin. A beautiful rosebush grew into existence in front of Sherlock. As he spoke, white flowers burst joyful and a branch grew towards him, reaching out for his fingers, one twinning around his index as he opened his hand to it, the thorns turning away from his flesh, protecting it almost. Sherlock let it because it was interesting. When he stopped talking, it grew another inch before stopping.

Sherlock wanted to ask more questions of the Watsonville residents, but their pleased faces were pushing him towards a breakfast cafe. They chatted and stuffed him with tea and toast and eggs and sausage as he explained himself and asked more questions. They spent the day like that, Sherlock not remembering when he had last eaten so much.
One of the citizens offered him their own bed for the night and Sherlock took it. He slept for twelve hours.

The next day Sherlock decided to explore more. A gaggle of citizens followed Sherlock around now, eager to hear him speak and observe everything (it was almost as if they had never seen their own city, the endearing idiots). After another full meal, Sherlock felt like he was rolling around, carrying his heavy stomach like a mother about to give birth. He had never been heavier in his life, but he still managed to toddle onwards. But then he stopped and tapped the ground. The pavement echoed. He asked the nearest citizen about it. The citizen frowned and shook its head, not wanting to speak about it. Sherlock insisted. Every city had its dark places, some more than others. Sherlock had already spotted a flophouse, far larger than Lestradeville's, and the most opulent tree-lined way led to it, bearing the most disgusted and sad fruit. Mycroft did not keep a whorehouse, but a large all-you-can-eat-buffet like those in America, filled with slot machines as much as pastries. There were no security cameras: it was a center for unrecorded excess and chaos.

While he was on the subject, Lestradeville's most questionable place was not a whorehouse or even the very small slums. No: even in the slums there had an air of apology, of future care to be had. Citizens moved in and out of it all the time. Lestradeville's most sinister place was a courthouse with its large imposing stone and harsh, judging eyes. The citizens were afraid of it and Sherlock, though having fully explored the place and even sat through a trial, was still the tiniest bit wary.

But Watsonville wasn't like that. It was almost ordinary, some curiosities here and there, but rather ordinary all the same. Sherlock realized that, with its broad avenues and clean streets, it did not have any particularly sinister areas: the flophouse was visible in broad daylight, though admittedly tucked in a corner. It was uncomplicated, transparent almost, but yet eye-catching in its transparency. Even Hooperville, another of Sherlock's more favored travel spots, at first glance was a benign town where each citizen had a cat. But a second glance revealed it had a darker side made manifest by a cemetery full of the living, rotting dead and a maiden chained to the seashore. Watsonville did not have any nooks, hidey-holes, crannies, or obscure corners. Sherlock imagined other travelers might ignore it, rather preferring a flashy ritz or Mycroft's gaudy towers. But this oddity intrigued Sherlock. No town could be like this. It wasn't real. And in the same moment to him it was...comforting, warm, safe, but also dangerous. The ground echoed. It wasn't supposed to do that: the only hint that not all was right.

He asked about the echoing again the next day. And the next day and the next. He visited Lestradeville once, to pick up supplies and make some inquiries about Watsonville. He didn't find much. It had previously been part of some association called Barts and was allied with Stamfordville. Sherlock vaguely recalled the other city: a round, rather humorous place, with a comedy show and a medical teaching clinic. During his time away from his usual haunt, Andersonville citizens had invaded Lestradeville a bit, someone mentioning a tiff between it and Donovanville. The Andersonville citizens were more snippy than usual, poking fun at Sherlock's current favoritism of Watsonville. Sherlock reminded them that their town was full of rats that carried secrets back and forth, tattling on the citizens and laughing at them behind their backs. They finally shut up and let Sherlock go.

Weeks passed and Sherlock was still puzzled by the echoing of Wastsonville's streets. He had measured the angles of every buildings, but to no avail. Nothing could cause the echos like the tapping of his own feet. He had found other interesting things: Watsonville had an enviable recycling program and a slight insecurity that the entire populace had outie belly buttons. A rather large-looking pub was completely boarded up, though some citizens would gaze longingly at it, willing the blockage to disappear. It had a town-wide rugby team and he told the sporty citizens that Lestradeville enjoyed similar activities. In a day that Sherlock frequently looked back on fondly, Lestradeville and Watsonville citizens had a tournament, complete with food and Sherlock sitting in the grass and deducing things about people for trinkets and useless coins. One Watsonville citizen gave him a solid army mug, which his palms fit perfectly and he twirled it around and around and around, pleased.

Sherlock had also found a tree. A huge oak whose bark seemed to glow with life and the branches strung with small lights. The leaves were curled with spikes on the end instead of being broad and soft. It was drought tolerant, Sherlock realized. Interesting. Sherlock wondered if all cities had large, singular trees that were just kept hidden from him. He wondered if they all had scars. Watsonville's had gashes driven into the trunk and imprints of odd shapes, though these imprints seemed to be much older and almost healed. The Holmesville tree was almost made of scars, though Mycroft's Association had covered most of them to be nigh undetectable. Sherlock knew they were there, however. A good way to tell was by hitting the tree: if a scar was underneath your fist, a thin, blueish barrier would flare for a moment and your hand would turn cold.

Speaking of the cold, the weather in Watsonville was ever changeable. For the most part, it was cloudy, not Mycroft's mysterious or oppressive clouds but more Lestradeville's occasional worrisome raindrops. Usually when Sherlock woke, it sunnied a bit, only truly darkening when Sherlock attempted, in a fit of pique, to destroy something. Last time it had been a particularly horrible smelling fruit tree that was too near the flophouse for his liking. The world had rumbled at that, shaking and even quaking until Sherlock left off. A rose bush sprouted afterwards through the concrete, coming towards Sherlock while he was sulking on the sidewalk. It had no thorns and produced a single sunset-colored rose that stroked Sherlock's cheek gently, the air humming a soft tune like a mother's lullaby. The rose's leaves caressed his chin, encouraging him to look up at the sky. Sherlock just saw the sun, burning down at him. But then there was a flash: something like a slightly worn face topped with fine blonde hair. Blue eyes, the color of the sky.

Sherlock looked back at the rose, which had stopped moving. He began talking to it, coaxing it back towards him. He told it it was fantastic, that he liked Watsonville very much, that it was like a giant puzzle for him to solve, not just little puzzles like Lestradeville's or the simple ones of Mummy's. It grew four more flowers which caressed him more, ran insubstantial petals through his hair. When Sherlock felt it was fully complimented, he asked about the flash and the echoing. A citizen came over and said the flash was something that had never happened before and that Sherlock should look into it. It refused to speak about the echoing or the lack of dark corners. Sherlock decided that these two things were connected.