Thanks for this and the following chapters to the friendly people of the Achiltibuie Tourist Association who were nothing but supportive. and who did not even hesitate to answer when I asked them how many people have been killed in Achiltibuie so far (none, BTW). Chapter 2
It took them another three days before Sherlock felt up to facing the journey to Achiltibuie. After his break down he had been extremely quiet, avoiding all social interaction except with Mrs Hudson, who simply hushed him whenever he started to be horrid to her.
John watched them say goodbye in mild surprise. "Don't forget to call me, love," she commanded Sherlock when hugging him at the train station, "I want to hear from you regularly that you are no longer mean to John." Sherlock nodding at that in silence worried John more than Sherlock being angry and cruel.
It was a rather long trip by train, but John had been adamant about this one, strongly believing in this "the way is the goal" thing. He felt it absolutely necessary to show to Sherlock how far away from London they were going to be, hoping that the geographical distance might bring an emotional distance as well.
And so they travelled to Edinburgh by night train, took a four hour train ride to Inverness in the morning and had to go on from there by bus, first nearly two hours to Ullapool, then finally another two hours to Achitlibuie.
The whole time Sherlock seemed to stay inside the shell he had erected around himself after the episode in his room. He barely looked at John, made sure they did not accidentally touch, did not react at all when John reached for his elbow to guide him towards the right train at King's Cross.
He must have slept all through the way to Edinburgh, and when they were heading towards Inverness he simply stared outside for hours, leaning his head tiredly against the window. He did not say a single word, and if he was aware of John's concerned glances he did not let it show.
John, on the other hand, barely took his eyes from his friend. There were times when Sherlock's eyes were staring at the outside unmoving, like he was caught in a dark and lonely daydream, and others when his eyes feverishly followed the landscape outside, taking in each and every detail at an alarming speed. Both states made John's stomach clench in concern.
After a while, he felt as if the entire "way as goal" thing was backfiring on him. You can only spend so many hours being concerned about your friend before your thoughts trail off, and the eight hours it took them to get from Edinburgh to Achitlibuie left more than enough time for unwanted contemplations.
No matter how much he tried to stop it, he could not help remembering the way Sherlock had huddled against him four days ago. He still felt Sherlock's body heat, mixed with hot tears, and when he closed his eyes, he could still imagine Sherlock's hand clinging to John's shirt with so much force it nearly tore the seam apart. He could feel the trembling body pressed against his, the shallow breath against his face.
Good thing that Sherlock was too lost in his own world right now. Normally John was very careful not to let too much of these thoughts show when they were together.
He was no fool and well aware of the fact that if he only looked deep enough inside himself, he would find that his feelings for Sherlock were more than friendship or brotherly affection. It was pure love, no need to beat around the bush there. And to be honest, he would not have to look that deep, either.
But he was also aware of the fact that he was in love with a man who would deduce that John's favourite tea had changed from Earl Grey to Ginger from the way John held his mobile or something. It was absolutely impossible for Sherlock not to notice the feelings John was having for him. Still, he never reacted to it, never commented, never showed disapproval – or approval, whatever. The only reason for that, John had been painfully aware, was that Sherlock simply did not care.
Therefore, John had kept it to himself, carefully hiding the feeling, not willing to risk their friendship by attempting to change it into something else. Yet, no matter how much he hated to admit it, this mixture of friendship and platonic, unrequited love was more fulfilling than any other relationship he ever had.
Still, the memory of holding Sherlock so close … It took quite some willpower to stop his body from reacting to that. When they finally reached Achitlibuie in the afternoon John was tired, and Sherlock was drop-dead exhausted.
At least Mycroft had been right when he had promised John that the little cottage he owned would be the perfect place for Sherlock to find the way back to his normal self. It was simple, far away even from what little population Achitlibuie was offering, surrounded by an austere yet beautiful Highland landscape. The front window offered a wonderful view of the ocean and the nearby Summer Isles.
Sherlock acknowledged it all by taking one swift look around, wrinkled his nose a little and went straight into the bedroom. The only bedroom, John mentally added. "The cottage is rather simple" had not been an understatement then.
The only other room besides the bathroom was the one John was standing in now, a living room with a kitchenette, a rather large dining table and a lounge with sofa, arm chairs and a small lounge table. Let's hope the sofa is comfortable, John thought as he inspected the rustic looking interior. He briefly wondered what use Mycroft normally made of this cottage.
Not wanting to disturb Sherlock in the bedroom, John refrained from unpacking their suitcases. Instead he made coffee, checked out the groceries that mysteriously were waiting for them in the fridge, attached both their laptops to the wireless LAN and mailed Mycroft, Harry and Mrs Hudson to let them know they had reached their destination uneventfully.
After about an hour he checked out on Sherlock, only to find him in the bed next to the window, huddled against the duvet, breathing deeply and steadily, asleep. John moved closer, thinking about waking him up to make him eat, then thought better of it. Instead he took the luxury of watching him for a while, his dark curls a mess, his delicate lips pressed together. John noted how even in his sleep his forehead was frowning and his fists were clenched. Not a restful sleep then.
After a while, Sherlock started to stir slightly, making a soft, whimpering sound so forlorn it hurt John deep inside. He moved closer carefully, watching Sherlock's closed eyes racing. Bad dream. The whimpering went on, and against better judgement, John stretched out his hand and gently touched Sherlock's head. He stroked his curls, soothing, whispering comforting words without really noticing what he was saying.
Miraculously, the whining stopped, and Sherlock's fists slowly unclenched. He sighed, still sleeping, and a thin smile quickly passed his pale face. Then he turned away from John, huddling further into the duvet, and seemed to fall into a dreamless slumber once more.
John remained by his side for quite a while, watching over his sleep, before he retreated to the living room. He could still feel the softness of the curls on his fingertips. Great, another memory he needed to hide somewhere deep inside himself. Maybe deciding to spend an uncertain amount of time with Sherlock in a 300 square feet cottage with only one proper bedroom had not been his brightest idea so far.
When John woke up early the next morning, the bed on the other side of the room was already empty. He tiptoed into the living room, expecting to find Sherlock there, but soon realized that he was alone. He had turned in late yesterday, spending some time on the sofa reading, not willing to explore the surroundings if that meant leaving Sherlock alone without telling him so.
Obviously, Sherlock had not shared that sentiment. On the dining table there was a hand-written note. It read: "Outside. Don't wait up.". Well. Good. Kind of. At least he had thought to leave a note. John did not like the idea of a depressed Sherlock getting lost in the Highlands, but then he had come here with a purpose. If spending the day alone in the wilderness was what helped Sherlock to recover, John would be fine with it.
After breakfast, John got himself a pen and added "Me, too." No need to sit at home like an abandoned housewife. He grabbed his jacket and went out.
He had to admit the scenery was breathtaking. The cottage was built so close to the seaside that it took you less than a minute to get to the shingle beach. And there John stood for a while, breathing in the salted, chilly air, before idly wandering along the coast.
Behind him, the soft hills were rising, and there was an overall quiet he had not experienced in many, many years. All he could hear was the ocean, an occasionally screaming sea-bird and some sheep in the distance. The sun was shining from an incredibly blue sky, the few clouds looking like they were attached there on purpose, only to underline the vast blue openness.
John took in a deep breath once more. It was almost impossible to be walking through this lonely idyll without relaxing instantly. Only now did he feel the burden that had been weighing on his shoulders for so long. The whole insanity of Reichenbach and its aftermath, the stupid case at the harbour afterwards and then Sherlock's spiralling into depression immediately following. John felt like it had been years since he had last taken a deep breath without thinking, mourning or worrying about him.
"Lovely view, isn't it?" he heard a voice behind him. Surprised, he turned around. On the coastal street there was a woman looking over at him, her bike leaning against the knee-high stone wall. Dutifully, he approached her, secretly wishing her to leave him alone again, but being too well-mannered to say so.
"Yes," he answered, while looking at her closer as he reached the street. She was a bit smaller than him, probably in her late twenties, her hair somewhat too dark to be blonde and too light to be brown.
She stretched out her hand, "I'm Grace."
He shook it, and politely replied, "John Watson."
That made her smile grow even broader. "Oh, they don't really do family names here," she explained. "Not enough people around to make it necessary, I guess."
"So you're not from here?" John went on, still wishing she would just go away again.
"No, but I've been working here for nearly three years now. I'm the private tutor of Maria's and Neil's children. Are you one of the Londoners that moved into the Holmes cottage yesterday? I guess I saw your friend ranging the hills earlier this morning."
"Oh, um, yes, that's … that's possible." She smiled at John again, her blue-grey eyes shining with sympathy.
"Well," she said without breaking the gaze, "I need to be going. Will I see you at the pub sometime?" Asking which pub she meant was needless, as there was only one.
"Oh, um, sure, sure." John gave her another polite smile, and she touched his arm before heading off.
Had she been flirting? Not that it mattered, but it sure had been nice to be at the receiving end of a flirtation for once. Giving that thought a little smile, he went on, walking down the coast and back again for hours before feeling up to entering the centre of Achitlibuie to meet the locals.
On the first day after their arrival, Sherlock wandered the lonely countryside simply with the purpose of leaving John alone.
(cottage is too small to avoid him, but being close to him and talking to him would surely mean hurting him again, hurting John is to be avoided at all costs)
He had told Mrs Hudson about it on the phone
(voice caring and warm, but still concerned I might hurt John again.
So am I)
wondering how his life would have turned out had he not tried to raid her house in Florida that Monday afternoon six years ago
(disastrous).
He tried to scan their surroundings
(thirty-four houses in the vicinity of four square miles, ten of them outside Achitlibuie, forty-two cars, four different flocks of sheep, only one street)
and to deduce the relationship of the few people he observed from afar
(the two teenagers in the hills: hiding from parental disapproval, parents of girl believe boy is bad influence, rightfully so will leave her after sexual contact
the older woman living alone in a cottage far away from the centre: no contact to three children, no close relationship to other citizens, mean woman
the middle-aged gray-haired web designer with the Border Collie: sick, two heart attacks already, wife doesn't know about medical condition, is cheating on him while he takes the dog out)
but found that the dark fog in his head, the foul mood that made him tired and slow and heavy and mean was too persistent to be penetrated.
John spent the second day walking along the coast, wandering the little town – which really did not take long – and getting to know people better. Even though he was not one to collect good friends like stamps, he was generally easy-going and therefore welcomed by the hospitable locals.
At the shop he was greeted warmly by a young man who introduced himself eagerly as Toby Coventry. "You are the fifteenth tourist this year," he beamed at John, his freckles making his face appear even more happy, his red hair a dishevelled mess.
The fifteenth? "Well, that's ..." John started, not quite sure if that was a lot or not, but Toby continued talking right away.
"We thought tourism would decrease after the hydroponicum was closed, but looks like we are holding it steady. So, that tall guy that arrived with you, is he another of these strange Holmes people?"
After some more small talk, John was sent to the post office, because Toby thought that David, who was working there, should also meet him. David, a serious looking man about Toby's age, told him more about how often Mycroft would come here and how everybody in Achiltibuie thought he was a spy like James Bond.
When John entered the pub that evening, he was quickly greeted by Toby and David and invited for some beer and a discussion on whether they should tell Henry that Martha was cheating on him while he was taking the dog out or not.
He met Marlow, who was also employed by Neil and Maria Gibson, and Maggie, Toby's sister and Achitlibuie's only police officer.
Grace joined them later, seemingly very pleased to see John again, and the subtle flirting continued. She would touch his arm every now and then, give him a deeper look than Toby and David, encourage him to tell them about life in London. It was absolutely not what he was looking for, but it was a welcome change from what he had been through the last weeks.
On the second day it took Sherlock two hours
(should have been faster, brain still sluggish and disobedient)
to figure out that after his extended trip yesterday there was nothing new left to deduce besides the weather
(bound to stay warm and dry with wind coming from north-west)
and how long it would take the boy to finally make sexual contact.
(two more days)
He sat down on a solitary bench
(wooden, more than twenty years old, boring)
halfway up one of the hills,
(Cambrian, boring)
looked down at the coast, the ocean and the Summer Isles
(also Cambrian, no streets, one café, one post-office, one Atlantic salmon farm, tourists, boring)
and to his surprise found his mind start wandering.
(unpleasant)
(but welcome, not boring, unpleasantness is well-deserved)
He embraced the unpleasant sensation of feeling guilty and unworthy of human affection and slow and tired and heavy and sluggish and guilty. He sat on that bench for more than six hours
(six hours twelve minutes)
without really knowing what he had done all the time.
Over the course of three days, their lives had fallen into a certain routine. John spent the days outside on the coast or sitting in the garden behind the cottage, reading or writing. In the evenings he would go to the pub, meeting the locals and very soon he got to know most of them. He even got a glimpse of Neil and Maria Gibson, Grace's bosses. They stayed only inside the pub for about an hour, but the change in atmosphere during that time was remarkable.
It was not the fact that the Gibsons were obviously richer than everyone else, exposing that wealth by living on an enormously huge estate called Thor Manor, located at Polbain. It was the way Maria looked at Neil, lovingly and obedient, and the way Neil met her affection with harsh words and criticism. When they finally left again, everybody was relieved. "They are always like that," Toby explained.
"Poor Maria, coming all the way from Brazil to end up with such a sod," Marlow said.
Sherlock on the other hand seemed to spend all the time he was awake in the hills, coming home only to eat and sleep, usually arriving when John was not there. Every day he stayed away longer, but as sleeping too much was one symptom of the atypical depression, John took it as a good sign that he was awake more often now.
On the third day, nothing had changed in the sparse setting around Sherlock
(boy still needs one day to get girl, shepherd's wife cheated on shepherd again, weather not changing)
and he felt good enough to take a closer look at the dark thoughts he had simply let buzz by the day before. They had been about his childhood,
(unpleasant)
his father's death,
(too painful, unable to lock it up in the mind palace)
mistakes he had made,
(plenty)
consequences he had avoided.
(too many)
And every second thought had been of John.
(unusually high amount)
That evening he had come back with the intention to talk to him, to find out why John had never left him, but when he entered the cottage, he found it empty.
(but freshly prepared food in the oven, one serving already eaten, note for me to eat the rest, he still cares)
Another note told him that John had gone out to the pub.
(third day in a row, rather there than with me)
(understandable)
"John has not left yet," he told Mrs Hudson when he called her later that night, and stopped listening to her when she told him
(voice steady, is really convinced she's telling the truth)
that John would never leave if Sherlock only tried a little to be good.
(impossible task)
They did not get to see each other too much that way, and when they were both at the cottage at the same time, Sherlock was either extremely reserved or overly grumpy.
No wonder, really, that when Sherlock came home on the fourth day and instantly disappeared into the bedroom, John did not notice any difference and hence completely missed the epiphany that had happened.
On that fourth day
(girl crying, had sex, boy left her of course, tomorrow it will rain a little)
Sherlock welcomed the austere surroundings and once more allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts. He still wanted to find out what caused him to think so much about John.
Each and every thing he regretted when it came to John
(semtex, the note, Grimpen, the drugs in the coffee, arrogant remarks, ignoring him for the Woman, not telling him I saved her life, insults, sniper, note on the rooftop, being gone, long list)
was replayed. Why was John still there? This question stubbornly remained in his head
(no logical reason)
but even more puzzling was the question why Sherlock cared so much about it.
(about him)
Curious, he started to analyse the room John had got in his mind palace,
(warm, welcoming, bright, safe, comfortable, soft, sunny, interesting, mellow)
what he generally thought of John
(brave, trustworthy, friend, intelligent compared to average people, praises me, best friend, loyal, fun to be with, likes me, high morality, perfect sniper, warm, attractive, expressive, compassionate eyes, reliable, emotional, steady, laughs with me, only friend no need for others, intriguing lips, strong minded, home)
and mentally re-watched those moments he had valued most
(a hand holding on to my sleeve even though we were hand-cuffed anyway, an innocent look after shooting the cabbie, calling me an idiot afterwards, a disdainful look at Sebastian Wilkes that sod, being heaved back to bed by him after being drugged by the Woman, laughing about chasing that cab, a hand on the back of my head when crying four days ago, him not leaving me)
Then,
(oh)
contemplating his feelings during these situations once more,
(OH!)
he finally understood.
For a while, he simply continued to sit on that bench, staring at the ocean
(what now?)
completely unable to react to this revelation, listening to his quickly beating heart.
(does John know?)
That thought caused a wave of emotions
(panic? anticipation? fear? hope?)
rushing through him, taking his breath away, leaving a lump in his throat, doing funny things to his eyes. When his frozen state became ridiculous, he grabbed his phone and called the only person he would dare to ask for
(help, compassion, pity?)
advice.
Sherlock paced up and down in front of that bench,
(more energetic than before, does sentiment always influence you like that? Need to ask John. NO, not John)
(panic again and hope and fear)
waiting for Mrs Hudson to answer her phone.
(Tuesday, 1 pm, normally at home that time, has eaten already, not started her after-lunch nap yet)
"Sherlock, dear," he heard her voice
(afraid I've done something stupid again)
"how are things going in Scotland?"
(translated: Have you messed up with John again?)
Ignoring both the unspoken and the spoken question, he said: "Mrs Hudson, I've just had an important epiphany."
(empty meaningless sentence to further delay voicing the revelation. intriguing how difficult it is to put it into words)
"What is it?" she asked curiously.
(not guessing what I'm about to say)
"I am ..." he started
(really reluctant to say it, funny)
(reluctant to feel it? yes. no. hope-fear-panic)
"... in love with John."
(so, it's out. Still feels funny. But well-done!)
"Oh, I know, dear. Why are you telling me that now?"
(?)
"What do you mean, you know? I've just found it out right now." He was unable
(and unwilling)
to keep his irritation out of his voice.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson went on,
(she's smiling)
"are you serious? It's been so obvious. I've always thought the only person in the world who doesn't know is John."
(John doesn't know. Good. That's good!)
(or isn't it?)
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
(with a mixture of amusement and pity in her voice. Stupid question)
"Why would I do something?" he answered.
(panic subsided. push hope away)
"Well", she said,
(now definitely more pity than amusement)
"will you tell him? I mean, if he knows, the two of you could ..."
(ridiculous)
"Mrs Hudson,"
(Why would anyone love me? Stupid idea)
Sherlock tutted, "as the idea of John ... of anyone loving me is absurd at best, there is no need to take action." And before she got the chance to say more, he hung up on her.
