I promise I will return to my other stories. This is only three chapters, so it's almost done anyway. Even so I've gotten a better idea for what I want to do with the New Frontier...at least for another chapter or so, so hopefully I can write more on that sometime soon.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock :(
In the middle of nowhere Georgia, surrounded by field after field of peach trees and where houses are few and far between, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson wandered down a winding dirt road with the setting hot July sun beating down on them. How they got there isn't entirely important for this story. All John knew was one day Sherlock announced that an old acquaintance had contacted him, begging for help on a serial homicide in rural Georgia and the next thing John knew they were on a plane to America.
Now John wasn't stupid. After the whole Peach Tea incident in March, he had learned the signs of Sherlock's depressive moods. The closer they got to the fourth of July, the more withdrawn Sherlock became. The fact that this case turned up, taking them to her home town just in time for America's Independence Day, was a little too much of a coincidence. John worried that the younger man would become inconsolable while there and, God forbid, might slip back into his drug habit. (Something also told John that the habit had originated from Caitlyn's disappearance; what else could have drove him that close to the brink?)
It turned out he didn't need to worry so much. Except for a few low points when he was clearly caught in some memory, Sherlock seemed happily intent on finding the killer. Which he did on July fourth, two hours before the fireworks were scheduled to begin, the sun lazily sinking below the tree line.
After guiding the police to the spot where the killer was hiding away in a little shack in the middle of a field, Sherlock had led John away, seemingly knowing where he was headed though naturally he refused to share this information with his flatmate.
John quietly followed the taller man as he turned onto yet another dirt road when a thought suddenly occurred to him. What if Sherlock actually had no idea where they were headed? The man was usually a well of information, but this trip, no matter how much he tried to hide it, had taken its toll on Sherlock. John would have been surprised if it hadn't. No man in Sherlock's position would have been able to go through his lost love's hometown without some sort of emotional distress. Even Sherlock Holmes.
He was contemplating breaking into Sherlock's reverie to ask where they were when the dirt road suddenly dumped out onto a paved main highway. The street was completely deserted except for a large pickup truck pulling into the dimly lit, half full, car park across the street. As they drew closer, John noticed a small brown building with a green thatched roof standing in a pool of light from the lamps in the lot half hidden amongst more trees. Most were the peach trees they'd been walking through for the past half hour, but a couple were clearly different. It wasn't until they were across the car park that John could see they were almond trees. Quite fitting as the large faded sign above the door claimed the building to be called The Almond Tree.
Sherlock led the way inside, music and laughter immediately assaulting their ears as they slipped through the semi-large crowd to the back bar area. It wasn't until they were seated on old wooden stools, waiting for the bartender to finish serving a couple at the end of the bar, that John was able to really get a good look at the place.
It was small, intimate, with several large tables scattered around for diners, all set up with a diminutive vase holding a single (mostly wilting) flower and a tea light candle. A pool table stood off to one side next to an ancient jukebox with a handful of rough looking farmer types gathered around, leaning on pool sticks as they chatted and waited for their turn to play.
But what caught John's eye the most was the signatures. He remembered seeing it once on the telly. Something about certain bars, clubs, restaurants that let famous celebrities sign the wall and/or furniture whenever they visit. Looking at the signatures written and carved around his spot at the bar, however, John couldn't recognize any of them. Most of them were normal sounding first names (Karin, Jamie, Erica, Sam), some were initials (AD, LL, HP, RW, HG), and still others were circled in carved out hearts (BS + EC, Lucy + Peter 4ever). No famous ones as far as he could tell.
Glancing up, John caught sight of the wall behind the bar. Expecting to see shelves of various alcohols, he was a little surprised to see a massive collage of pictures of every shape and size mashed together in a chaotic mess on the wall. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the collage, just pictures piled amongst pictures until they formed one large mass.
"Sherlock!" a surprised male voice snapped John back to the present where the bartender, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a large furry mustache, was staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. "Didn't think I'd ever see you here again."
Sherlock nodded once, otherwise ignoring the man's implied question, "This is my colleague, John Watson."
The man turned to John, smiling widely and sticking out a meaty hand to shake, "Nice to meet ya! I'm Bobby. Just call me Uncle Bobby. Everyone does."
John just smiled in return, shaking his hand. There was no way in hell he'd ever call the man "Uncle Bobby" though.
"What can I get you folks tonight?" Bobby said happily, eyeing Sherlock in a way that clearly said he had a lot of questions on his mind but was either waiting for the right time to ask or was too polite to ask at all.
"Food. Anything's fine. And I'd like a scotch. John?"
"Er," John hesitated, unsure what he wanted. Hell, normally he had to beg Sherlock to slow down enough to grab a sandwich. He must be really hurting if he was willing to sit in a bar long enough to eat actual food and have a scotch. "Same, I suppose. But a beer instead of a scotch, please. Anything on tap."
Bobby nodded, moving to the small window leading to the kitchen to place an order of burgers and fries before pouring out their drinks. Again, he eyed Sherlock as he worked.
"Have you been out yet?" he finally asked bluntly, placing the glasses in front of the men.
Sherlock sighed, raising his glass to eye level to study the amber liquid, "No."
"Ya should," Bobby paused. "She'd like to see ya. You haven't been out since…well, I think she'd like the company."
Sherlock nodded before swallowing the entire glassful in one gulp.
Noticing John's slightly lost expression, Bobby turned and expertly plucked a photograph from the wall behind him, handing it over to the British man. In it was a younger, but still recognizable Sherlock and a beautiful young woman of roughly the same age with long wavy locks of dark brown (or dark red; John could never make up his mind) hair falling over one shoulder. They were sitting in a corner booth of what was clearly The Almond Tree, the woman laughing as she leaned over Sherlock, a maker poised in her hand as she prepared to write on the wall beside them. Sherlock was smiling broadly at the woman, completely unaware of everything else in the room.
"Caitlyn dragged Sherlock here for the Fourth of July the year before he went off to college," Bobby explained.
"University," Sherlock muttered, staring down at the names on the bar.
Bobby rolled his eyes, "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, they were staying with her grandparents. Her granddad died not long after that, and her gran had to sell most of their land. She told them to come visit again soon. Didn't like bein' so alone in that old house. They had made plans to come back the summer before Caitlyn joined him at school."
But she went missing. The unspoken sentence hung in the air around them, the tension so tangible you could cut it with a knife.
Needing to break the horrid stillness that seemed to settle around them, John cleared his throat, "So, why do people sign their names?"
Sherlock visibly relaxed. They were back in safe territory. For now anyway.
Bobby shrugged, "Tradition. Been like that for years. Can't really remember why anymore. All the regulars have done it at least once, and visitors do sometimes too. Some families have multiple generations on these walls. Take Caitlyn for instance." Sherlock's shoulders tensed again, his had clutching the empty scotch bottle so tightly, John worried he might shatter it. "In this here picture, she's signing her and Sherlock's names where her grandparents and parents all signed. They seemed to think it meant luck for their marriage."
John's eyebrows shot up as Bobby excused himself to go serve another customer. Lowering his voice so only his neighbor could hear, he asked, "You two were engaged?"
Sherlock shrugged, his shoulders suddenly hunched sadly, "Not officially. I had yet to propose at the time she wrote our names. However when she went missing…"
John nodded, "I'm sorry."
Sherlock nodded back as their food finally arrived and the sound of exploding fireworks began to rock The Almond Tree.