The sun was hot on Sherlock as he worked. His body that was once pale, terribly slender, and almost sickly looking had gained a bit of muscle mass and turned a caramel color thanks to his need to survive. After his disappearance from London, he had hitchhiked as far out as he could. His new residence was a far cry from what he was used to. The small town he lived near had a tiny population that got smaller every year as people became disenchanted with the countryside life style. It was exactly what he needed though. Even the local newspaper only ran twice a week, usually only having articles about the rest of the world, except for the occasional wedding announcement or obituary.
Sherlock's first month in this town was the hardest.
He knew he had to learn to hold his tongue, he couldn't deduce to people, he needed to keep his brain sealed up. It was infuriating and he eventually found himself recreating his past cases in his mind palace, desperately clinging to what few remained unsolved. A family let him board with them in exchange for work on their farm, after a while he found a second job and used that to be able to afford to rent the small farmhouse he was now staying in. His voice had lost the speed and excitement that it used to hold, his eyes were dull against everyone, nobody was terribly interesting out there; they were all so predictable.
His current job was caring for livestock; he'd feed and water the animals, do a headcount, and be sure that the traps were set for any predators that would want to attack the sheep and cows. He could feel his brain atrophying, as any muscle does without exercise. However, his mobile phone, no, that little trinket was all he needed anymore. John's voice had become a beacon to him, something that made sense, yet didn't; John was a puzzle for him to dissolve himself into. Being able to tell immediately if John was drunk, and then from there he'd work out from John's tone how long he'd slept the night before, if he was off work yet, if he'd been keeping hydrated, just little things he could play with in his mind.
As the sun beamed down on him, he slipped his phone out of his pocket; John would be on lunch break. He smiled as the screen greeted him with an icon saying he had a new voicemail. Glancing around for his boss to be sure the coast was clear; Sherlock called voicemail and began to listen.
"Hey again Sherlock," Johns voice was informal and came out in almost a sigh. His voice was a little muffled; Sherlock accidentally let a smile slip, picturing John holding the phone to his ear using his right shoulder as he closed up his office to go to lunch. "I was offered a job at another hospital this morning and I accepted it on the spot- I'll be starting there in two weeks," his voice paused. "It- it'll be good to get out of here, y'know," he paused again. Sherlock knew John was thinking about Mary. The silence drew on and Sherlock began to ache a little, knowing he could do nothing about John's pain. "But, uh, yeah, right, I'm going to go ahead and take my lunch, I'd say you should join me but you're never hungry," John made a sad attempt at a playful laugh, but it just sounded empty. "Later, then." The automated voicemail voice started up again and Sherlock hung up in frustration. That was a shorter message than he was used to.
John went to a small pub for lunch, he wasn't hungry, he mostly just sat there and stared up at the television emptily, not absorbing the news report that was playing.
Then he went back to work, dealt with the five patients he had, received one prank call from a teenaged brat asking about the disease Blue Waffles (do yourself a favor and don't do the research). By the end of it all, he still wasn't ready to make the 20-minute ride to his empty house.
Harry had offered to let John stay with her as long as he needed, but he knew it was just her way of trying to get the control, and the attention, of a situation that really had nothing to do with her. He had considered staying in a hotel, but with the bills of the funeral and the regular other bills, he knew he couldn't afford to on his salary.
The house wasn't that large, it was a comfortable suburban one, something he wouldn't have been interested in ten years ago, but with Mary, it just seemed right. Now the idea was foreign to him once more. To live in a cookie-cutter house in a suburb, to accept this almost utopist idea that everyone can be happy and everyone can be comfortable in this atmosphere. The cab stopped at his driveway and John clamored out, struggling with his cane as he slipped his payment to the cabbie. Walking up the driveway, he passed by a car that he and Mary had bought together; it wasn't his memory of her that kept him from driving it but his damned leg not being able to be comfortable while he drove.
He would sell it, but he struggled with the idea of selling it for the same reason he struggled with even considering selling the house. It was hers also; he just didn't feel right selling it. As if his selling it would get rid of her presence around him, the way his leaving the flat at 221 B Baker Street was supposed to get rid of the memory of Sherlock. Thumbing the phone in his pocket, he knew that hadn't worked well at all.
As he walked through the house, trying to unwind, he leaned his cane against the bathroom door and tossed his coat off. Pressing his weight on the bathroom counter, he used the front of one of his shoes to push the back of his other shoe off of his foot, and then used that free foot to return the favor. Starting the water and placing in the drain plug, he started undressing; at first just tossing his clothing aside and then pausing to set it, all in a semi-folded pile on the counter. The mirror began to steam quickly, a testament to the house's great pipe system. Grabbing his bar of soap from the shelf, he lowered himself into the tub slowly, letting the hot water envelop and sooth his body as it continued to fill the bath.
Rubbing his sore leg, he tried to stretch it out the most he could, wanting to pop whatever was messing up his muscles, although he knew it was just in his head. As the water almost reached his mid-upper arm, he shut it off, still working at his leg. Leaning back into the bath to relax more, his hand brushed something he had been neglecting since Mary's death. He traced a circle with his thumb into his upper thigh for a moment before stopping and hissing out his breath.
His wife was dead; he couldn't do it.
Sherlock's bathing accommodations weren't so comfortable. In his farmhouse, the bathroom was small and utilitarian, just the open-faced shower, a toilet and a sink. There was hardly any light from a ceiling fixture, so if he wanted to see he'd have to leave the door open and have the main room's light on. Stripping bare of his clothing, there was a very stark difference between his skin that was often exposed and that which was covered, the dark caramel color was not only from his tanned skin but also from the dirt of his job, it kissed against his pale untouched skin in an almost costume way. He had started the shower fifteen minutes earlier and the water was just beginning to get warm, to keep from wasting any more water or time, he subjected his skin to the just-less-than-lukewarm water.
As he scrubbed at his body, the dirt came off in an almost brick color into the water, swirling away into the drain. He scrubbed until even his paler skin was a bright red, as if trying to get off any contaminants he could. His hair was the worst for this; it was a much darker and cleaner shade after he scrubbed the dirt and debris out of it. Steam lay close to the floor, swirling over his feet as they too became clean.
Turning off his shower, he dried his hair haphazardly before using the towel to wipe off the mirror. He didn't look at his reflection often, it would interfere with his interests if he tried to read into himself, but he couldn't resist this time. His face was thicker than it had been before he left London, not to mention his hair was actually a bit lighter due to constant sunlight. His crystalline blue eyes shone out brightly against his now darker skin. New freckles and wrinkles were his skins singsong clues to point out that the hard work was weathering his features. Looking away from the mirror, he inspected the rest of himself. His arms, more his right than his left, had become cluttered with small scars and scratches from his job, his muscles were much more pronounced now than they had been before.
Sighing out, he tossed the towel down by his clothing and meandered off to his bedroom to find something to wear. He didn't want to admit it, but there was something in his own face, in his reflection, that reminded him of John.
It hurt.