A/N: When I did my customary re-read over the previous chapter, I found that it was almost slap-dash and by far the shortest one I had yet produced. Then at the end I begged for reviews like a Dickensian orphan…
Oh the shame! The shame!
At any rate, I apologise and hope that this finds you better. One day, I'll go back and fix Chapter Four.
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"Holmes…" I began tentatively, for I had no desire to disrupt his thinking. We had been walking for some ways in the direction of the cornfield, the Munchkin village now fading into the distance behind us.
"Yes, what is it, Watson?" He sighed. His shoulders slouched forward and he had thrust his hands quite deeply into his pockets. The Ruby Walking Stick had been transferred to my possession almost immediately after our discussion regarding his proposed etymology of the term 'Munchkin'. Much to my discomfort, the strains of the day had marked themselves quite harshly on my old leg wound, and I had been relying quite heavily on the artifact – despite it's being a key piece of evidence.
"Do you imagine it was the right thing for us to do, leaving the scene of the crime like that?" I asked, though I knew full well that he would answer in the affirmative. Holmes was not a man who did things groundlessly or without forethought.
"I'm not at all certain, my dear fellow. This entire incident has me somewhat at a loss, and though we persevere, I cannot tell you with any confidence that I know what we are doing. Nor can I tell you much more as to why we are doing it, only that justice must take its place for that woman's death and it is up to you and I to find whose head it shall rest upon." He became drawn then, and I could tell at once that the burdens of Oz were taking their toll.
This had not been the answer I hoped for, and so I became somewhat drawn myself. Walking steadily in silence.
Tiredness had fallen upon us, for we made our way only inches towards this Emerald City. It was a tiredness that weighed our lungs down with the suffocation of a heavy fog, not unlike those that come about the city of London in the late stages of autumn. Oh, how I yearned to be back in that great city! How I regretted ever leaving it! How I vowed never to vacation to a seaside resort ever, ever again!
Holmes seemed to be mirroring my own line of thinking, for he next said to me:
"Where do you imagine that sky ends, Watson?"
"That was very poetic of you, Holmes."
"No, no. Though I do thank you for the compliment. I meant, in fact, if you were able to discern where the edges of this sky come into contact with the ground. Where is the nearest point of horizon?"
"I'm not certain I can see any manifestation of horizon. But what has that got to do with anything?" I grumbled the latter sentence, for a sharp pain had flared up in my leg. Holmes took no notice of my sour demeanour.
"Only a fleeting interest of mine, old fellow. I merely supposed that if either you or I could see the line of scope, we might be able to find the edge of this fabricated country and free ourselves from this waffle and nonsense…"
Here he paused, closed his eyes and permitted himself a sharp and deep intake of breath.
"And yet… It calls so to be rationalized. I am conflicted, Watson. As a dog who barks at a butterfly. Does he chase? Flee? Or merely continue to growl at the air, long after the insect has departed?" Holmes was not prone to analogies that placed him in the same league as a basset hound. I wrote it off to his lack of sleep and tobacco.
"Perhaps the best we can do is to keep on this path." I tried to comfort him. Though, in truth, I felt even less certain about things than he. For I had begun to open my mind to the possibility of an actual Fairy Kingdom, regardless of all natural instinct to completely rule out the notion.
Again, we shuffled forward in pensive silence until:
"Oh! That is just mean-spirited!" Holmes shouted, pointing angrily at an effigy both humorous and ghastly.
It was in the midst of the large cornfield that the Saffron Path split in twain, the crossroads yielding a space between the two forks. The gap was marked with two things, the first being a road sign most unusual in its makeup, the second was the object of Holmes's sudden burst of rage.
The sign was compromised of two plain board arrows, one pointing in each direction. The arrow indicating the left read 'That Way is a Very Nice Way' in blue lettering. The arrow indicating the right read 'Down That Way is Pleasant, Too' in red lettering. And, sat behind the directions was a scarecrow of some distinctly ill humour.
It was standing up by means of garden pole and was nearly as tall as Holmes himself - just over six feet, if my eye took it in correctly. This was not the only thing it had in common with my friend, for it seemed to be styled after him in a rather stereotypical fashion. The plain white canvas face was marked by the singular feature of an aquiline nose, and it had been dressed in the clothing that typified the man of our day – save for the deerstalker atop the scarecrow's head.
Such a figure would have been solely a point of broad humour for Holmes, as he was at this time still quite amused to be caricatured with that inaccuracy. However, there had been a card of some highly wrought and opulent embellishment that had been pinned to the scarecrow's chest.
"Brainless!" Holmes read it aloud with virulent disgust, "Imagine the idiocy behind this, Watson! The sheer darkness of human nature to declare me – ME – of being without a brain! Absolutely preposterous!"
He fumed, and stared hatefully at the portrayal. Almost as though he were trying to melt it with the pupils of his eyes. Without hesitation, he removed his jacket and approached the scarecrow.
"You are in no way an accurate depiction, Mr. Scarecrow!" Holmes bellowed and began the process of tearing the thing down, "Come and lend a hand, Watson!"
"I'm sure it's the sort of thing that's only meant to be comical…" It was in my best interest to calm him down, for we would most likely need all of his energies in tact if we were to make our destination with any sort of speed.
"Ah! Perhaps I would have seen the joke better if I had a brain!" Holmes sniped, and from the force of resistance on the garden pole knocked himself backwards several steps. He disappeared behind the corn and there was stillness.
"Holmes?" I called tentatively, for the only thing I could then hear was the distant chirping of birds. There was no answer.
"I say, Holmes! Holmes!" I took several steps towards the corn when his head appeared suddenly from amidst the endless sea of vegetables.
"What are you shouting about, Watson?" Here he emerged fully pulling with him a wooden wheelbarrow, empty save a few leaves from the corn plants.
Holmes then returned to his earlier task of pulling down the scarecrow.
"Don't just stand there, Watson. Help me get this blasted thing into that wheelbarrow!"
"Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'? So that we can bring it along with us to see this Wizard!" Holmes exclaimed, and though I still remained uncertain as to his thinking I began to help him.
"I don't mean to make myself any sort of a nuisance with all of these questions, but why do you wish to take it with us? It's obvious you hate it. Bringing it along will only serve to put you in an even more wretched state, and that is far from ideal."
"Watson, I am being petty. I have no desire to play this childish game of name-calling, and so feel that if we bring this utterly ridiculous object along we shall prove something of ourselves. I imagine that the Wizard will feel a creeping self-loathing as he sees me standing tall besides this most insipid stunt…" Holmes explained as we heaved the scarecrow into the wheelbarrow.
"I don't see your thinking here at all, Holmes."
"That's because it wasn't a scarecrow of you! I want to show this madman that I shall not be bullied, nor that he can bruise my ego with such trivialities!" He sighed, and I felt certain that his ego was indeed bruised, and that dwelling on the incident would not do his mental state any good.
"Who knows, my friend," he patted the scarecrow, "perhaps if you play your cards right, they'll be able to fix you up with a Cambridge education."
"Ha! A scarecrow with a diploma! How utterly farcical!"