A/N Prompt fill for kendrapendragon. I may have tweaked it a little bit because frankly, Victorian AU are not really my area. I do hope you still enjoy it though. It's an unbetaed multi-chapter WIP.
It might be fun if you read it while listening to Moonlight Sonata Movement 1 by Beethoven.
"Why?"
"Why am I the one carrying your luggage, Sherlock?" Doctor John Watson knows that if he choose to do so, he can simply leave the heavy suit case in the ground, and let his flat mate worry over his own luggage. He can walk away, pride and energy intact - except, for the small detail involving the ownership of the heavy bag. Being the flatmate and bestfriend of Sherlock Holmes - the self-proclaimed world's only consulting detective - the good doctor knows that the man can find a way wherein he still ends up carrying the bag, with the addition of a deflated ego and/or insulted pride. However, it did not stop him from voicing his irritation underneath a thinly-veiled sarcastic question.
The man did not even falter with his steps, instead the lanky figure continued to walk smoothly ahead the path - expertly missing any tripping points despite his eyes trained down on his smart phone.
"Simple. You're the one who lost this month's rent to a silly bet with Lestrade." Sherlock's long, spindly fingers did not even miss a letter as they rapidly flew across the screen. His face remained neutral, in contrast to the scrunched up face of his blogger.
"Well, if you had the grace to tell me that you knew all along that it was the pool boy and not the gardener, then the money would have been doubled right now." In his defense, the bet was made because Sherlock had told him that his prime suspect was the gardener.
Or at least, it seemed so.
"I did not tell you because your discussion on the mechanics of the bet proved to be a sufficient distraction so that I could knick the gloves from the evidence bag." Like a smug little boy, Sherlock turned to face him and began walking backwards as he continued their conversation. "Which, proved to be quite helpful in pining down the pool boy."
John's scowl grew deeper as he struggled to heave both his and Sherlock's bags. "You could have at least given me a hint. "
"I did. I told you about the chloroform bottle, didn't I?" The man child had the nerve to raise his eyebrows and shrug his shoulders before turning around and walking properly.
"That was it?" As John caught the slipping strap of his own satchel, he almost tripped due to an unfortunately placed pebble. He had half the mind to kick the offending piece of rock as a form of rebellion against Mother Nature, Fate, and other forces that had ensured that he be in that exact situation - carrying a heavy load, walking towards an old great house with -he thinks- a questionable plumbing system, and staying there for who knows how long in order to solve a case which would have been ignored, had it not been for the brilliant manipulation of Mycroft Holmes.
The older Holmes came into their flat and dangled the case underneath Sherlock's nose by wrapping it in oh-I'm-sure-it's-too-easy-for-a-genius-like-you statements.
He was almost tempted to voice that observation, just for the sake of irritating Sherlock who will surely shoot it down like an in-denial little boy that he really was. However, he wisely chose to keep quiet, lest he want to be at the receiving end of another cutting remark .
The doctor was so absorbed with his irritation and near Herculean task - really, what did the consulting detective packed in his bag for it to get that much heavy?- that he did not realize that they had already reached a time-tested wrought-iron gate.
"Yes, John. Now if you could just shut up." Sherlock, with his usual stiffness, effectively placed an end to their conversation before turning to press the buzzer that was concealed behind thick vines.
At the distance, John could see the silhouette of "The Black Manor" - so called because of the black slate that covered its entire exterior. Despite the sun being out in its full afternoon glory, the dark slate offered a gloomy shadow in its surroundings and John can't help but frown as he felt an inexplicable feeling settle within him. It was a mix of emotions that he can't distinguish, much more identify.
For some reason, flashes of the hot Afghanistan desert began to assault his mind.
Sweltering heat, devious mirage, heavy air, damp sand…
"John!"
The doctor's reverie was broken by the sharp voice of his lanky partner. Sherlock stood a few feet away from him alongside a young girl - barely sixteen in John's estimate - who was swaying with the balls of her feet, a display of her nervous disposition. He was so immersed with his memories that he missed the arrival of the girl who, with butter fingers, gingerly opened the heavy latch locking the gate.
"Quit your daydreaming John, we have so much to do." Sherlock said before turning around to proceed towards the manor, without any thought of waiting for them.
Just like that, the uncomfortable feeling restricting the doctor's lungs was immediately drowned by a surging wave of irritation. With a huff, he mustered his patience and strength as he again heaved his heavy load.
"Um, please, let me be of assistance." The young girl eyed him with uncertainty but she extended her arms with the clear intention of relieving him of his heavy satchel. However, with just one look at her skinny arms, John knew that she won't be of much help.
"No, don't worry about it." He smiled reassuringly.
"I can manage it." He can barely feel his fingers clutching Sherlock's case.
"Oh, okay." The girl squeaked before clamping her gob by biting her chapped lips. It was only then that John really took note of the girl's appearance. Almond-colored hair hung past her shoulders, her cheeks were dusted with freckles and she had a button nose underneath a pair of brown doe eyes. Her shy nature was exemplified by the downcast eyes and the constantly flexed palms. However, she exude a calm and gentle aura that reminded John of another girl - a blonde and skinny fourteen year old, who always grabbed his hand during the nights when thunderstorms shook their little house.
"Hi, my name is John Watson." Performing a carnival-worthy balancing act, the doctor managed to extend his right hand towards the shy girl.
For a few seconds, the girl only eyed his hand - seemingly weighing whether or not to accept the friendly gesture. Exactly at the moment right before the doctor dropped his hand, she took it carefully.
It wasn't instantaneous.
Nothing like touching an ice cube.
It felt more like sticking a finger in a freezing metal pole.
The coldness spread through his palm slowly, but once it broke through, it felt like needles were being rapidly poked underneath his skin. Unfortunately, he can't -won't?- remove his hand from her grasp.
Just like how he can't escape the piercing stare of her brown eyes.
Burning heat, deceitful mirage, suffocating air, blood-soaked sand…
"Are you done with your little chit-chat?" Sherlock's voice boomed again through the blogger's consciousness and the hands that were once clasped fell like withering petals. The girl turned away from the doctor to look back at the impatient detective who did not even spare them a glance. Meanwhile, John was left to look down at his hand.
It looked as normal as they usually were, except for a slight tremble that he was not quick anymore in attributing to fatigue.
When he looked up, the girl was already following the detective, who was half-way through the cobbled path.
"I'm sorry, I did not catch your name." John called out as his trembling hand unconsciously curled near his chest.
The girl stopped, but just like all her other actions, it took her a few more seconds before she made her next move. With shoulders hunched and head thrown down, she turned her body halfway towards him - the shy girl was back again.
She was already walking away, before the wind carried her name.
"Heather. Heather Hooper."
"Because he had to be taught a lesson."