AN: Thank you to our four wonderful reviewers, as well as the followers and favoriters! Sorry for not updating this sooner... please review!
Riding an airplane overseas next to Sherlock Holmes was an interesting experience, to say the least. John never wanted to experience it again. Ever.
Throughout the nine hour long flight, as John alternately stared out the window, tried to read a book, or researched the notorious Winchesters, Sherlock constantly made deductions out loud about everyone. And he said them rather loudly too.
John learned that the woman opposite was having an affair with a small business owner, the two girl in front of them were flying to the US to get a purebred puppy ('most likely a medium-sized family dog', Sherlock mused), the man behind them had an untreated heart condition, and many more facts about the private lives of everyone around them.
By the end of the flight, John was performing calming breathing exercises to stop himself from strangling his flatmate, Sherlock was repeating 'BORED' loudly between random deductions, and they were the subject of many angry, hateful glares.
When they disembarked in the Denver International Airport, John almost shouted aloud in relief. He didn't talk to Sherlock on the way to the baggage claim or while renting a car and leaving the airport with white fabric mountain-like cones on top of the long, sprawling building. As they passed by a large statue of a rearing blue stallion with flashing red eyes, he turned to his flatmate.
"What the hell was that?"
Sherlock looked at him blankly.
"What? The horse?"
"The entire thing on the plane! Blurting out everyone's secrets for the whole world to hear!"
"I was merely stating the obvious," Sherlock huffed, his pale eyes turning to look out the window at the rolling plains and the faint snowy mountains beyond.
John almost growled, but stiffly turned back to the road, consulting the page of directions he had printed out based on where the Winchester brothers had last been seen and laid between them.
"Can you read those to me?" He asked Sherlock, not comfortable with looking at them while driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road. Sherlock sighed and obliged.
John headed west, towards the mountains.
Seltad was a tiny western-style town, almost the perfect image of what you would imagine a ghost town to look like- tall wooden buildings with overhanging roofs and porches lining dirt streets, shattered windows and cobwebs, twigs, grass, and other debris blowing down the road. At the end of the single road, ruining the 'lost-in-time' image, was a small, modern inn. Sherlock and John pulled up in front of it and walked in.
A cheerful, potbellied man greeted them from behind a wooden counter/bar.
"Welcome to Seltad, the most well-preserved ghost town in Colorado!
"Thank you. Um, what rooms are available?" John asked, walking up to the counter, Sherlock beside him.
The owner winked knowingly at John, who frowned in confusion.
"We have a lovely master bedroom with a king," the man said.
John blanched and Sherlock sighed wearily.
"No, no, we're not together!" John said fiercely for the thousandth time.
The man held up his hands.
"Easy there- I just thought-"
"Well, you thought wrong!" John snapped. "Two beds, please!"
The man took a step back and kept his hands up in a defensive pose. He grabbed a set of keys for a room containing two twin beds without breaking eye eye contact with John. He handed him the keys, flinching when John abruptly took them. John slapped the payment on to the counter and stormed away, Sherlock following impassively.
When they got into their room, Sherlock was pleased to find that they had wi-fi and proceeded to borrow John's laptop and continue his research on the Winchester brothers, trawling through news articles, videos, photos, and first-person testimonies. They had numerous counts of grave desecration, credit card fraud, and impersonating federal agents, along with one case of bank robbery and hostage holding and enough brutal torture and murder charges to put even Sherlock on edge.
John flopped down on one of the beds, pursing his lips as Sherlock silently tapped away at the keyboard.
"So, what's the plan for tomorrow?" John asked.
"The Winchesters have been spotted very near here. They have a pattern of showing up at the locations of murders and killings, and there have been several here recently. Our best guess of where they'll turn up next is here."
"So we just…wait?"
"And investigate the murders in the meantime. It'll keep me occupied."
"Oh, so they're interesting enough for you?" John snorted.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You'll see."
"Oh my god," John gagged.
"Calm down, John. Surely you've seen worse in Afghanistan?" Sherlock said dismissively, pulling on two white gloves crisply.
"Not like- that. Not purposeful," John said, eying the body of one of the tourists. "Yes, I've seen people blown apart by bombs. Not- mutilated like that. What kind of sick bastard-"
"Are you going to help me or not, Dr. Watson?"
John sighed and pulled on a pair of gloves.
Earlier that morning Sherlock had managed to wrangle permission to access the bodies from the police in the occupied town nearest Seltad (who were handling the case), and they had driven there to examine them.
It was a middle aged man, he had dark brown hair and one lifeless brown eye. The other eye had been gouged out by a flat headed object. The neck was still intact, but decorated with small, symmetrical scratches. Sherlock looked further down. Blood was pooled beneath the body, the chest was abnormally wide, as if the ribs were cracked apart. The lungs were pulled out of the gash in his back and placed to either side of his torso. The skin and muscle on the legs were removed, leaving bloodied bones, that were wrapped with tendons. The meat and skin was off to the side, inside the man's open hand. The other arm was broken so many times, that it appeared to have been made of jelly. It flopped at a weird angle that made John cringe. The feet were smashed with a hammer, the toenails smashed into the blood and bones, the shape of the feet almost unrecognizable. The body smelled as if had been dumped into a sewer and left there to stew in the hot sun.
Sherlock examined it emotionlessly as John cringed and gagged, still trying to make medical statements anyway.
"Appeared to have died of the Bloody Eagle, a torture tactic that was a particular favorite of the ancient Norse. It has the most blood loss of all the wounds and the look of pain across his face shows he was killed slowly and painfully."
"So the other wounds were made after death?"
"Apparently."
Sherlock "hmm"ed and poked at the pile of skin and muscle in the man's palm, not appearing to notice the unbearable scent causing everyone else to gag. He pushed the body on it's back to get a better look. Forensics and police argued in disapproval as he meddled with the body and any evidence still on it from the crime scene. They started to charge at Sherlock, intending to get him away from the body and out of the morgue, but John stepped in their path, and calmly explained his eccentric partner's actions. He pointed out that they had already looked at and took pictures of the original crime, and that Sherlock was wearing latex gloves, causing him not to make any fingerprints. The crowd of professionals stepped back reluctantly, not prepared with an argument to counteract John's, and many dispersed from the morgue to go about their usual business.
"I'm done," Sherlock announced, pulling off his bloody gloves and tossing them in a nearby trash can. John sighed in relief and quickly strode out of the morgue, after which Sherlock took the lead. The pair went outside and got into their rental car, heading back to Seltad.