The Monk's cabin, near Kursk
After Pasha's hilarity finally ebbed, he levered Sherlock off the floor, while Sherlock choked and sweated with pain (and not a small amount of embarrassment, to be truthful). Pasha cheerfully volunteered to pick up the marbles while the Monk fixed Sherlock a half-dose of the vodka/opium mixture, and this time Sherlock drank it down without protest, since oblivion sounded extremely attractive at the moment.
Sherlock dozed away the time until they had a simple dinner of roast chicken and apples. The Monk explained the marbles— "I collect them all year for the children, then give them out at Christmas. I put them up on that shelf so that they wouldn't spill"—which of course set Pasha right off again. The Monk asked why an Englishman had ended up here, in the nether reaches of Russia, and Sherlock spun him a yarn about doing research for a book on post-Soviet Russian adaptations in the lands far away from Moscow. It was patently ridiculous and they both knew it—why would a scholarly researcher work for a smuggler in the Russian Mafiya? But Sherlock couldn't tell the truth, even though he felt a bizarre impulse to do so. He was getting so very tired of lying.
After dinner he found himself, to his inner amazement, sitting on the bed playing a rousing round of Snap with Pasha and the Monk. It wasn't like there was anything else to do, after all—the Monk's books held little interest for him at this juncture, and his phone charger wouldn't reach all the way across the cabin to the bed. The Monk smilingly refused him further access to the laptop unless he was willing to finish translating the sermons, and truthfully a child's card game was infinitely preferable to that (and of course the Monk knew if when he offered).
After an hour or so, the Monk offered Sherlock another half-dose of the opium mixture, but after thinking about it a moment, this time Sherlock refused—it was starting to sound a little too attractive, and not because of the pain. Pasha said nothing but gave him a nod, which made Sherlock flush a bit—having Pasha proud of him for not being an idiot shouldn't feel so satisfying.
They made an early night of it—the Monk had plans for tomorrow, and one could only play so many card games. The Monk changed Sherlock's bandages (on a wound that now looked the better part of a week old—at some point he must find out what was in that plant tincture), and they all settled down, the Monk and Pasha to sleep and Sherlock to do some much-needed maintenance in his Mind Palace.
Sherlock was awakened, very early indeed, by Pasha and the Monk preparing breakfast, a rather more substantial one than the previous day. The Monk worked at the great iron stove in the corner, cooking eggs and bacon, while Pasha helped Sherlock to the outhouse and back. He was pleased to note that he could walk this morning, after a fashion. It hurt, but the pain no longer felt dangerous, as if his foot would spontaneously explode. He looked up from his cautious forays into walking across the cabin to see the Monk beaming. "So, are you ready to re-enter the world today?" he boomed, in that deep, deep voice.
Sherlock was, actually. Enforced confinement at any time was difficult, even when injured. Enforced confinement without stimulation of any kind was hideous. He assumed, however, that the Monk had plans for his release that did not include climbing into the truck and driving away. He was quickly proven correct.
"I have a task for you, my young friend. It won't put too much strain on your ankle, but it will take some time—most of the day, I expect." He looked over at Pasha. "Pasha and I will drive the truck into Kursk for a church planning meeting that will take many hours—there's a petrol station there so we can put enough in to keep the truck running while we are busy. But there are a few tasks that require a more personal touch, and perhaps a bit of negotiation, and those, I think, will fall to you."
Sherlock managed not to laugh, with some difficulty. Negotiation, after all, had never been within his skill set. He tried to imagine Mycroft's reaction to his endeavors as a diplomat (or John's, for that matter) and had to work to repress a reluctant smile.
"I am certainly willing to make the attempt," he drawled. "But, as I think Pasha will tell you, I am not, perhaps, the best choice as an emissary." Pasha rolled his eyes and nodded in agreement.
"Very good then," chortled the Monk, rubbing his hands together. "I will draw out your route for you, and then we will sort your transportation. You won't come back here—at the end of the day you can meet your friend Pasha with the truck and continue on to your wedding. And for my part, I will forgive the loss of my pig, and I will even explain to Gregor Borodin that I asked you to borrow the truck for me." Pasha beamed at that.
The Monk bustled around, first bundling up food and a bottle of cider, then collecting paper and pencil and drawing a simple map, complete with the name of the first person he was to contact. Then he sat down next to Sherlock on the bed and spread it out for him.
"See here. There are three deliveries that need to be made, and they are essentially a chain—the first leads to the second, which leads to the third. They will explain what is needed when you arrive; I have let them know you are coming. Your transport will allow you to reach all three within the day." He reached behind him for the bundle of food, then pulled a second large bag from the corner, containing a quantity of the apples they'd eaten the day before. "The food is for your lunch; the apples are to pay the first person in your chain. This should be adequate, but again, may take some negotiation on your part—country people like to believe they are getting the best of any bargain, you know." He waggled his eyebrows. "I, too, am a country person."
He stood up and stretched, then looked expectantly at Sherlock. "So—would you like to meet your transport?"
Sherlock knew a moment of misgiving. He wasn't accustomed to "meeting" transport. It might just be a figure of speech—perhaps the Monk was one of those tiresome people who insisted on naming their vehicles like pets—but it didn't seem especially likely, as he exhibited no other sentimental traits. Still…
Pasha stood as well, and tucked Sherlock's arm over his shoulder as extra support while they walked out of the cabin and down the steps. They looked over the barn lot, mystified—no vehicle was in sight other than the refrigerated truck rumbling gently behind the cabin.
The Monk enjoyed their confusion for a bit, then motioned for them to wait, while he walked purposefully into the ramshackle barn. And when he came out, he was leading Sherlock's "transport".
It was either a small mule, or a very large donkey—impossible to say for sure, given the quantity of shaggy hair tufted around the animal's body. Large ears, one flopped lazily over halfway up its length, twitched irritably as the Monk tugged on the lead rope. The donkey(?) was perhaps 13 or 14 hands high, topped by a battered saddle that looked old enough to have come through World War I.
The beast also appeared to have rolled in a barnyard at some point—a pungent odor of equine and manure wafted over to Sherlock with the animal's approach.
The Monk stopped in front of Sherlock. "This," he announced, with a grand sweep of his arm, "is Dulcinea. She's not pretty, exactly, but she is very reliable. I had my friend Dima bring her by last night. She can take you on your entire route, and when you're done someone will come collect her." He beamed expectantly at Sherlock, clearly awaiting some kind of response.
Sherlock blinked. The donkey blinked back, with a look of profound equine mistrust (which Sherlock, a rider from a very early age, recognized with a certain amount of foreboding). That foreboding was justified when Dulcinea abruptly lunged forward and snapped at Sherlock's shoulder, while he hurled himself back into Pasha. "Jesus!" said Pasha, backing briskly away and hauling Sherlock bodily with him. "Is it rabid?"
The Monk tutted soothingly, rubbing his knuckles gently down Dulcinea's long nose. "Now, now. She's just a bit shy. She'll get used to you." Dulcinea squeezed her eyes shut and leaned against the Monk's chest. "Here, come let her sniff your hands."
"That's for dogs," Sherlock said, making no move forward whatsoever. Pasha stayed firmly behind him, out of biting range.
"Oh, she likes it nonetheless. Come on, just run your hand over her muzzle. She warms up very quickly," urged the Monk. Dulcinea imitated a large housecat, seeming nearly asleep while leaning against him.
With great misgiving, Sherlock stretched out his arm and reached carefully for the donkey's nose. Dulcinea continued to appear semi-comatose. Just as he touched wiry whiskers, however, wicked little eyes popped open and great yellow teeth shot forward. He managed to move his hand back, but not before he felt damp enamel slide along the edge of his hand as the teeth snapped closed just short of his fingers.
The Monk quickly grabbed at the cheek rein and pulled her slightly away. "Dulcinea! You bad girl!" he said in stern tones. Dulcinea shook her head a bit and butted him gently in the chest. "See there?" he said over his shoulder to Sherlock and Pasha. "She's just playing." He reached up, scratched her nose gently one more time, and tied her to the fence rail. "Let's go get your things together. We need to get underway."
They walked back into the cabin. As Sherlock went slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on Pasha, he looked one last time over his shoulder and saw Dulcinea looking at him with what seemed unsettlingly like a predatory stare.
By half-nine they were on their way. Pasha had helped the Monk tie the bag of apples and Sherlock's lunch to the back of the battered saddle, and then helped Sherlock mount the little beast. The Monk had already lowered the stirrup as far as it would go on the left side, and tied the stirrup up on the right since Sherlock's injury would not allow its use.
Once loaded, Sherlock was excruciatingly aware that he looked ridiculous. His long, thin legs (the lower six inches of which were now sans trousers due to the Monk's donated clothing) hung dangerously close to the ground on either side of his miniscule steed. Two large sacks (his lunch and the apples) were tied to the rear of the saddle and bounced against Dulcinea's hips with each step. And of course, it was all capped off by Sherlock's hideous (and completely necessary) Crazy Englishman straw hat.
Pasha took one look and howled. "Oh my God," he chortled. "I just realized. If she's Dulcinea, that must mean you're Don Quixote!" He all but rolled on the ground with glee.
"Then that would make you Sancho Panza, wouldn't it?" snarled Sherlock. "That's especially apt." The Monk just smiled and shook his head.
Pasha continued to giggle as he and the Monk turned to walk back towards the truck. That was a mistake, as it turned out, as Dulcinea took the opportunity to snake out her head and nip him smartly on his left bum cheek.
This time it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. He didn't quite fall out of the saddle, but it was a near thing.
Dulcinea, as it turned out, wasn't half-bad as a riding animal. Her gait, if not exactly speedy, was fairly smooth, and the ancient saddle protected Sherlock from her bony spine. She tried, early on, to break away and scrape him off under a low-hanging branch, but was foiled by Sherlock's riding skills and strength on the reins. Then she tried, twice, to abruptly rear up and throw him—same result. After the final attempt, she gave a gusty noise that was almost a sigh, and subsided into a sulky walk. Sherlock could sympathize—he was feeling remarkably sulky himself, and had no one with whom to share his ill-feeling.
His first errand was roughly 10 kilometers away—at Dulcinea's languorous speed, perhaps two-plus hours of ambling along. It was already hot, the sun rising higher and beating down on his straw hat. Dulcinea, whose hygiene was not of the best, was also drawing flies, which buzzed constantly and lit on both of them. Sherlock's bare ankles seemed particularly attractive; he was very glad his injury was still fully covered. Dulcinea periodically whipped her tail, with its spiky hairs, against her sides—Sherlock suspected she intentionally swiped his legs at the same time.
He had expected to be lethally bored on this expedition, but so far it was proving surprisingly interesting. Keeping Dulcinea in line took a fair amount of concentration, of course, but he also found himself noting facts about the wildlife and plants he encountered, very different from those he was used to encountering in the rest of Europe. The path wound past a swampy area that had some very intriguing carnivorous plants; he wished he were mobile enough to take measurements and samples.
With the passage of time he became more and more aware of the sun. He could feel it beating on his bared shins and ankles—they would inevitably sunburn. His hands as well, most likely, though hopefully his hat would protect his head and face. He was also becoming uncomfortably warm and a tad dizzy—perhaps he should get out of the sun and drink some of the Monk's cider from his sack ("and eat your lunch as well," he heard John's voice say. It brought an involuntary smile to his face).
He pulled Dulcinea off the track at a small copse of trees near a weedy pond, then dismounted very, very carefully—he couldn't risk damage to his dodgy ankle at this juncture. It was very stiff, and putting weight on it was unpleasant, but that subsided somewhat after a minute or two. He limped over to a tree next to the pond and let the donkey drink (which she did, and thirstily—he would need to consider that going forward. He should have stopped sooner).
He unhooked his lunch sack from the saddle and settled himself, not without difficulty, on the long grass under the trees, tying Dulcinea's reins loosely around a low branch. He left her enough loose rein so that she could comfortably nibble the grass.
The lunch was another simple affair—hard cheese, fresh apples, bread and butter, and a large bottle of cider. He put the cheese aside for later, settling on a slice of bread and one of the apples, washed down with half of the bottle of cider. He fiddled with his phone, hoping against hope for a signal—nothing, sadly. He considered mounting back up, but suddenly realized, as he moved to get up, that his head was beginning to pound uncomfortably. Common side effect of too much sun for him, and he knew it would get much worse if he ignored it.
He settled reluctantly back down, sliding to his back. Dulcinea was staring at him, apparently perplexed. Moved by some uncertain impulse, he reached into his lunch sack and pulled out another apple, holding it out to her. She gave him what was clearly a suspicious look—she was surprisingly easy to read. But the shiny red globe was very enticing. Finally, she edged cautiously forward, extended her muzzle, and slipped her teeth into the prize before darting back as far as her reins allowed. She chewed and swallowed in a ruminative fashion, never taking her eyes off him. Finally, though, she gave out a gusty huff, closed her mean little eyes and dozed. And Sherlock, closing his eyes against the thumping pain in his head, did the same.
He woke abruptly, disoriented and unsure of where he was. Then he jerked up, realizing he had fallen completely asleep without intending to (which was unsettling—not something he was prone to). He checked his phone—roughly an hour had passed. He now saw what had awakened him—Dulcinea had apparently tugged her reins loose from the branch overhead, resulting in a shower of leaves that had bounced off of his face. And the donkey now stood, a considering look on her face, roughly 20 feet away.
Sherlock thought furiously through his options. No sudden movements, clearly—having the donkey run off would be disastrous, as well as potentially dangerous given his limited mobility. He considered his "tools"—the sack and his clothing, basically, neither of which would be of any help. He briefly thought of trying to call her over before reason prevailed. Dulcinea was not the kind of animal who would respond to cajoling under any circumstances. That presumably left bribery.
He dug into the lunch sack and pulled out one of the remaining apples. Dulcinea looked on with a certain amount of interest, ears pricking forward. He rolled the apple in his hands, held it up as if admiring it, then took a large bite and chewed in the donkey's general direction. He risked a quick sideways glance through his lashes, and observed Dulcinea, staring covetously at the apple. He enjoyed his treat in theatrical fashion for another minute or two, then raised his head slowly and gazed indifferently in the donkey's direction.
Clearly he now had her complete attention. Without making any sudden moves, he used his fingers to pinch off a largish piece, holding it up in the air until he was sure she saw it. Then he lobbed it in Dulcinea's direction, carefully tossing it 4 feet in front of her current position. The donkey considered momentarily, then rushed forward and snapped the morsel off the ground, crunching contentedly. Sherlock didn't give her any time to contemplate moving away again; no sooner was she finished with that piece than another flew her way, this time a further 5 feet closer.
The donkey considered longer this time, but Sherlock studiously looked away, paying no apparent attention to her movements. Soon enough she inched forward slowly until she could reach the treat, which was crunched up as quickly as before.
She was nearly within reach now. If Sherlock had two sound legs he would have taken the chance and lunged at her reins. But he didn't, and had neither the time nor the energy to spend repeating this process. He almost, almost, threw yet another piece. But something made him hesitate. And before he could dissuade himself, he pinched off another large piece, put it in his fingers, held out his hand and simply waited.
Dulcinea stood stock-still for several minutes, ears flicking and tail whipping back and forth fretfully. Sherlock remained in place, not making a sound, still holding the apple in his fingertips. And slowly, slowly, the donkey began to edge forward. And finally, he felt spiky whiskers brush against his fingers as rubbery lips slid delicately over the apple and took it from his hand. He stared at her as she crunched happily, and then slowly reached forward and took hold of the dangling reins. Those little eyes looked at his hand consideringly—he could almost hear her thinking about it. Then she leaned forward, ever so carefully, until his fingers were touching her muzzle. He automatically began to lightly scritch above her nose, and was bemused to see her eyes close in bliss. "Well," he finally breathed. "You're a bit of a fraud, aren't you?"
After attending to the call of nature (half a bottle of cider had to go somewhere, after all), he climbed on board and got back on the road. It was now midday or a bit past—the battery on his phone had died just after he awoke, so it was difficult to be certain of the time. But he had to be nearing his first destination. He knew only that his contact was named Oleg (if he had a last name the Monk didn't know it), and Sherlock was to pick up a chicken, trading the large bag of apples for it. Presumably he could tie another sack with the chicken to the back of the saddle—hopefully the bird would not be slaughtered until he arrived, so there would be no chance of having to ride cross-country with the smell of spoiled meat wafting around him. (He was going to be quite firm, however, that he would not be the one doing the slaughtering).
They came upon a clearing, with a ramshackle house and barn in the middle, about 20 minutes later. Sherlock shouted out a "Hello the house!" first (in case some paranoid Soviet refugee was lurking inside with a shotgun), but when there was no immediate response he climbed carefully off of Dulcinea and tied her next to the surprisingly clean watering trough near the barn. He was almost to the side door of the house, limping heavily, when the screen door creaked open and an ancient human being tottered out. It was impossible to tell if the being was male or female—extreme age had removed any remaining sexual characteristics or covered them with wrinkles, until what was left resembled a walnut with legs. "Who are you?" it abruptly said, in a cracked voice that was still neither one gender nor the other.
Sherlock bent over slightly to reduce their roughly two feet of difference in height and went into his best impersonation. "I'm William Sigerson," he said with a polite smile, sticking out his hand. "The Monk sent me to pick up a chicken from Oleg." And even as he heard himself say it, he marveled at how completely absurd this was. His smile became a bit more real, for no apparent reason.
"Did he now?" the old creature cackled. "I told him he would have to make it worth my while. So what do you have in return?" Sherlock hobbled back over to Dulcinea and unhooked the large bag of apples. "He sent these," he said, and held the bag out to the goblin, who made no effort to take them. "They're quite good," he offered, anxious to get this transaction completed so he could get back on the road. He set the bag down at the man(?)'s feet.
The being shook his head slowly. "I don't think that's enough," he creaked. He looked Sherlock up and down. "Normally I would suggest that you do some work for me. I'm not quite as spry as I used to be," he said with a grimace that might, twenty years ago, have been a smile. "But you don't look much better off than me, now do you?" he continued, with a look at Sherlock's ankle. "And you're a skinny thing anyway. Not very strong, are you?" He made a creaky noise that was apparently a laugh.
Sherlock felt his cheeks flush. He barely restrained himself from blasting this decrepit individual. But then he remembered Pasha, and the truck, and the wedding. "I'm quite strong, actually," he finally managed. "But you're correct, I'm not at my best at present." He started to reach for his wallet—he had perhaps 25 rubles, enough to buy a chicken twice over- then remembered that his wallet had been in his trousers. His ruined trousers. Which were still at the Monk's cabin, presumably in a trash bin.
"I have no money with me," he grated out. "Is there some other service I can perform? I'm a very good translator; I know many languages quite well."
The fossil laughed again. "I can barely read in my own language." He looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock was nonplussed—what else could he offer? The old man shook his head—clearly Sherlock wasn't playing the game properly. He tottered closer, while Sherlock debated looking for the chicken on his own and just leaving the apples.
Gnarled fingers reached out and stroked Sherlock's arm, while he resisted the urge to jerk away. "That's a very nice shirt," the cracked voice said. Sherlock blinked. "Yesss…," he said slowly, not at all sure where this was going. The fingers stroked the fabric of his sleeve harder. "That's a VERY NICE SHIRT," the creature blared, looking him directly in the eye.
The light, reluctantly, dawned. "You would like for me to give you my shirt in exchange for your chicken," Sherlock sighed. The wrinkled head bobbed. Sherlock felt compelled to make one last try for sanity. "But I have nothing else to wear," he almost-whined. The goblin threw up one wrinkled paw. "Oh," he chortled, "I have several nice shirts you can choose from."
Ten minutes later, Sherlock was attired in an ancient t-shirt adorned with some unidentifiable cartoon character. The shirt, though surprisingly comfortable, barely covered his torso, leaving perhaps half an inch of exposed skin at his waist. "It belongs to my great-grandson," the ancient being rasped. "He's 13."
Now that their business was concluded, Sherlock was anxious to be on his way. "Can you bring the chicken now?" he asked. "And perhaps a sack to carry it in?" It could, he supposed, go in the bag holding the rest of his food, but he'd rather not contaminate the leftover bread and cheese.
The goblin blinked at him. "Why would you put Nastia in a sack?" he croaked, while tottering very, very slowly towards the barn. Sherlock limped after him, but stopped when the ancient reached down and picked something up, nestling it in one stick arm.
And then, of course, it all slotted into place, and he detected the Monk's sense of humor at work. Because his task was not to take a slaughtered chicken to his next destination, tied on the saddle like cargo. His assignment was to ride across southern Russia, on a donkey, in his Crazy Englishman hat, carrying a live chicken.
He wished, somewhat hysterically, that John could see this.
He was finally back on his way by early afternoon. The goblin had plied him with lemonade (surprisingly good) and black bread (not, very—he fed it to Dulcinea as soon as they were out of sight), and handed him a tattered towel to wrap Nastia in. The bird, apparently of a phlegmatic disposition, took to this mode of transport calmly, sitting crooked in his left arm in her towel. She occasionally emitted little contemplative noises, but otherwise simply gazed around her in mild interest. Dulcinea had sniffed once and then ignored this interloper.
After a bit he felt feathers rubbing gently along his thumb. He took this as a cue to run one long finger gently behind the soft head, and received a grateful chuckle of sound for his efforts. He continued his motion; it was soothing, in a way.
An hour or so later he began to talk, running through his plans to deal with Borodin (which wouldn't come to fruition for several months, but could always stand additional contemplation and fine-tuning). Nastia, as it turned out, was a very good listener, making periodic clucks to indicate she was enjoying the sound of his voice. It was better than the skull, actually.
He stopped at a stream in mid-afternoon; his headache was back, he was getting much too warm again, and he suspected that Dulcinea would be needing water.
He set Nastia on the ground and left her to her own devices while he bathed his bare arms and overheated face in the cool water. Just before leaving the stream and climbing back into the saddle with his chicken, he took off his hat and dipped it in the water, and then turned it back over on top of his head, soaking his hair and shoulders. Dulcinea's shoulders twitched as cool water dripped off of him, but Nastia didn't seem to care. He made a mental note not to remove his hat once they got to the wedding venue—his hair would be madder than usual when it dried like this.
They finally reached their second destination—a rural store, much like those in pictures he'd seen of the frontier in America. He knew nothing of his "assignment" here, nor the name of the person he was to meet. As it happened, though, it didn't matter—there was only one person inside, though not in the way one would think, and no customers in sight. And this time, he was expected. He had no sooner stepped inside than a voice caroled from the rear of the building. "So! You must be the Crazy Englishman," a woman said, though no woman was visible. "I've heard all about you."
He looked around for his host, finally spying a large speaker, topped by a security camera, against the back wall. "I've heard nothing about you, though," he said, somewhat snarkily. "Other than the fact that I have a chicken for you."
"Yes, Nastia, correct? Best layer around. Maybe I'll get to keep her for longer than a week this time," the voice said. Sherlock said nothing, but raised his eyebrows inquiringly at the camera. "Oh," the voice finally said, "he didn't tell you then. Oleg and I meet here for poker once a week. Nastia is always his last bet when he has her, and mine when he doesn't. He won three weeks in a row, the old bastard. But this week his luck finally ran out." She snickered.
Sherlock could feel the last of his manners oozing out through his feet. He was sunburnt, his head hurt, his ankle hurt, and he looked ridiculous. And he was carrying a chicken. "Then I presume our business can be concluded quickly," he snapped. "I have your chicken; you have something for me. If you'll come collect her and give me what I need, I can be on my way."
"Oh, no," gasped the voice, "I don't come out. I never come out for strangers. He should have told you."
"Then I suppose I shall take my chicken and leave," sniffed Sherlock. He hobbled towards the door. His hand was on the doorknob when-
Wait, wait," the voice said. "That doesn't mean we can't come to an agreement." Sherlock paused, raising his eyes to the camera inquiringly.
"You were to pick up the listening device, yes?" the voice offered. Sherlock said nothing; he had no idea exactly what he was supposed to receive. "The issue is, Nastia is already mine for the week—I won her fair and square, so all you've provided is transportation. That's not enough to offset the value of the bug." Sherlock had a flare of déjà vu—hadn't he already had this conversation? He mentally cursed the Monk and his bloody "country people".
He rolled his eyes at the camera. "Look at me. I have no money; I have nothing to offer other than a donkey, which you may not have, or my skills at translation, which I presume you have little use for. So what do you want?"
The voice paused, clearly considering the matter. Then—"Those are very nice shoes…"
Thirty minutes later he was back on the road, sans Nastia. In addition to his meal-sack trousers and child's shirt, he now wore an old pair of trainers in a lurid shade of yellow. The disembodied voice had had him deposit the chicken in a nesting box placed behind the store counter, and then directed him to a small drawer in a tool chest for his electronic prize, which now resided in his lunch sack. She had also mentioned that his next stop was relatively close, which was a profound relief—between his pounding head and his ankle, he was ready for this little "adventure" to be over.
The voice was correct—his next stop was relatively close. After only 20 minutes of Dulcinea's ambling, they reached a little doll's house of a building, set in a beautiful little garden plot. Bees hummed around them as they moved up to the front of the house. By this time in a slightly spiteful mood, Sherlock tied Dulcinea so that she could nibble on any flowers she wanted. He fished the bug out of his lunch sack and hobbled painfully up the steps.
He waited briefly on the porch to see if someone came out, then knocked on the door briskly. Nothing. He waited impatiently for another two minutes, then knocked again, louder. This time he heard an indistinct sound from somewhere in the house. Finally, the door creaked open just far enough to see one watery blue eye peering out. "Yes?" an old, whispery voice said.
He held the bug up for the eye's perusal. "I'm the Crazy Englishman. The Monk said you would have something for me," he snapped. His head pounded in time with his pulse; he was suddenly aware that he was very hot, and he really didn't feel well. Abruptly everything came to a head, so to speak, and he found himself vomiting over the porch rail into the flowers. Dulcinea gave an offended whinny and scuttled aside.
After a bit he was aware of a presence at his side, patting his back and holding a cool, damp cloth to the back of his neck. "Poor boy," that whispery voice crooned. "You need to come inside and lie down." That sounded very attractive indeed; he kept his eyes closed against the pain in his head and let gentle hands lead him along. The hands led him through the house, so much cooler than outside, and pushed him down on a soft surface. The cool cloth was laid over his eyes, and a fan blew gently from across the room. It was bliss.
He came to himself an indeterminate time later. It clearly hadn't been long; the sun was still beaming in through windows across the room from the bed where he lay. The respite from the sun, and the damp cloth, had done him a world of good, though. Someone had also laid an ice pack across his ankle. He felt better, in a shaky kind of way.
"Oh, you're better," said that odd, dry voice. "I'm so glad." In the doorway stood a tiny wisp of a woman, elderly but not feeble. She walked over and held out a large glass of liquid, complete with ice cubes. "You must drink all of this, and another full glass when you're done." She waited expectantly; Sherlock's arm moved almost of its own volition to take the glass, and he raised himself up on the pillows enough to begin to drink. The first taste startled him, though, and the woman laughed at the face he made, a raspy little sound.
"I know, I know—it doesn't taste very good. Salt and sugar don't make a very good mixer. But you need both, so drink up." He reluctantly obeyed, finishing the glass with a grimace. She beamed and hurried off to bring him a replacement glass, then sat down on the foot of the bed while he worked his way through it slowly.
When he was done he laid back on the bed with a sigh. The woman tilted her head to the side like a bird, then smiled. It was time for a chat, apparently.
"So, the Monk sent you to me with your little gift. It's a bit of a joke on both of us, actually," she ducked her head a bit and grinned, "since I haven't had a use for such things for many years." She looked back up, giving him an earnest look. "We are very old friends, he and I. He saved my life once," she said, gesturing towards her neck. And Sherlock could just see, through her open collar, a wide white scar running all the way across. His eyes widened, and she saw.
"Yes, exactly," she said, nodding. "I had the misfortune to offend Gregor Borodin, a very long time ago. The Monk rescued me, cared for me, and brought me here." She looked around the small, simple room. "It's very quiet, but I find it suits me. I do little things to help him on occasion—repair electronic items, that kind of thing. And in return, he sometimes sends interesting people my way." She batted her eyes theatrically. "Like you, my boy."
Sherlock shoved himself up to a sitting position, pleased to see that the pounding in his head was ebbing fast. He stuck out his hand. "William Sigerson. Also known as the Crazy Englishman." She took it and shook emphatically. "Valentina Karpov." She gave a sly grin. "Also known as That Crazy Bitch, once upon a time." Sherlock startled himself with a sudden laugh.
She stood up and moved away from the bed, clearly waiting for him to rise as well but watching him very carefully while he did so. He surprised himself by not wobbling in the process; salt and sugar water was more effective than he would have supposed.
She walked out the door, not looking to see if he was following. He did, of course. This was the most interesting person he'd met in ages. Well, other than the Monk.
He followed her down a narrow hallway to a country kitchen, where a small package rested on the table. "He came by a little while ago—you were dozing, so I didn't disturb you. That's for you, but you have to convince me to give it to you. He said to tell you the bug is not enough." She grinned, and Sherlock felt a twinge of foreboding. She simply smiled and waited as they settled at the table.
Sherlock, predictably enough, broke first. "What do I have that you would need?" he sighed. "I can translate, but no one seems to be interested in that. I can repair electronic items, but I presume that you are probably better at that than I am if the Monk sends you items to repair. I have no money with me—I hope the Monk left my wallet with my friend, come to that. So?" he said, a little challengingly.
"Well, let's see," she said thoughtfully. "You're correct, your skills will be of little use. I would have liked someone who could work on my roof a bit, but you're clearly not up to that at present. And I wouldn't take money even if you had it—the Monk told me that this should involve penance of some kind, not coin." She gave him a stern look. "I would hope that this experience would teach you not to steal again. Smart young man like you, it's disgraceful." Sherlock did his best to look penitent. It wasn't one of his more successful shams, as a rule.
It wasn't this time either, apparently. "Oh, really. You need to work on that," she snorted. Sherlock, almost against his will, found himself grinning up at her through his eyelashes. Her eyes widened. "And none of that, either. I'm old enough to be your grandmother. You're a pretty thing, I'll grant you, but I prefer my men a little more… seasoned, shall we say."
Sherlock settled back in his chair, a sulky look creeping over his face. He laced his arms across his chest. "What would you have of me, then?" he said huffily.
She leaned over and patted his arm in grandmotherly fashion. "Now, now. Don't pout. It's unbecoming, and you're not 7 anymore." She stood up and grinned. "You know, I think I have just the thing. I wouldn't do it if you still had far to go, or if you weren't feeling better. But your friend is only a little more than an hour away, so...," she wandered out of the room, leaving Sherlock still seated at the table, mystified.
She bustled back into the kitchen with one arm behind her back, a mischievous look on her face. He looked on warily while she parked herself in front of him. She grinned, and whipped her arm out in front of him, holding out…
"You know," she said, "this is a very nice hat."
He set out again 20 minutes later. Valentina and the Monk had fed and watered Dulcinea while Sherlock dozed, so she was quite refreshed. Valentina had made Sherlock drink yet another glass of the salt-and-sugar mix, and made him take a bottle of it with him in his sack, with strict orders to drink some of it every 15 minutes until it was gone.
And then, of course, there was the contents of the box. When he slid it open, 2 items fell out. The first was the key to the truck. The second was a note from the Monk.
"I see you have done well", the note said."Valentina tells me that you completed each of your tasks and made it here, despite making yourself ill. Believe me, that was not my intention—I forgot how delicate you city boys are."Sherlock huffed at that, but kept reading. "I have enclosed the key to Borodin's truck—you will find your friend Pasha sitting in it when you arrive. The pig should be fine without refrigeration for an hour or two—just make sure you don't open the compartment and let the cooled air out."
"One more thing. I know you lied to me, about who you are and what you are. I do believe, however, that you are working for the good, or I would have called Borodin myself. Please don't make me a liar as well."
"Your friend,
Alexei Dushov (the Monk)"
Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about that. Was the Monk his friend? He'd always found that very hard to judge; wasn't sure what the qualifications were or where the dividing line lay. But for whatever reason, he seemed to be possessed of more friends these days, more easily acquired, than he had ever been in his life. It was perplexing. But it also made him feel curiously warm. He discussed it with Dulcinea while they walked; she wasn't quite as good a listener as the chicken, though.
After what seemed like days, they finally neared the end of their road. Sherlock could feel the sun frying the skin of his face and neck. He would run a high fever tomorrow, he knew, and be ill most of the day—it was inevitable after this kind of sunburn. He took another swig from his bottle of solution, grimacing. He cursed Pasha, he cursed Dulcinea, he cursed the Monk. After a bit he cursed himself as well—after all, none of this would have happened if he hadn't let Pasha talk him into this expedition. Although the end result could have been worse—if Pasha had actually gotten Kolya to come, it might have ended in gunfire rather than farce.
They rounded one last corner of the path and saw a welcome sight: there, in front of a small cabin, sat the truck. Sherlock clucked at Dulcinea to get her to speed up a bit; she blew irritably but conceded to cantering the rest of the way. Sherlock whistled sharply through his teeth (a skill taught him, amazingly enough, by Mycroft) and the door to the cabin popped open to reveal a beaming Pasha, followed by an unknown, scowling man.
Pasha came bustling over and bodily lifted Sherlock off of Dulcinea, while he huffed in protest. "So!" he boomed. "I told Kapotkin you would make it." He looked tellingly over his shoulder at the other, scowling man now holding Dulcinea's reins. He set Sherlock down and stood back, then started chuckling, which led quickly into a belly laugh. "What on earth are you dressed up as?" he sputtered, while Sherlock scowled back. "And Christ, you're red as a beet. Where's your hat, you madman?"
"It went to your benefit," sniffed Sherlock. "Just like all the rest of it." He held out the key. "Now, can we finish this, so I can go collapse somewhere and enjoy my heat exhaustion in comfort?" Pasha bowed, deeply and floridly, and took the key.
Sherlock started to walk to the truck as well, when something made him stop. He hobbled over to where the dour Kapotkin stood with Dulcinea, the lunch sack still strapped to the back of the saddle. He reached inside, pulled out the last apple, and proffered it to her on his palm. She gave him a considering look, then carefully opened her mouth and closed her teeth on the apple. He felt her wiry whiskers on his skin, but not a hint of teeth. He paused momentarily, while she crunched away, and then reached over and scratched down her nose. She stopped chewing, squeezed her eyes closed, and leaned gently against his hip. Then he patted her shoulder and walked away.
Safony, southern Russia
It took them almost two hours to reach Pasha's village, while they sweated and argued and laughed. Pasha was certain that Sherlock's trip had been dull and easy; Sherlock insisted it had been like something out of a Greek tragedy. Neither of them spoke about what their reception in Safony might be; Pasha had hardly spoken to his daughter in months, and Sherlock suspected it truly would be a tragedy if this grand gesture was rejected.
By the time they reached Natalia's home it was almost sunset. Sherlock's sunburn fever had arrived early, apparently, so he was just this side of miserable in the sweltering truck. Pasha was nervous to a fault, biting his fingernails and tapping endlessly on the steering wheel.
It was surprisingly quiet. Sherlock expected a yard and lane overflowing with vehicles and hordes of drunken revelers. Neither was in evidence, other than an elderly truck parked on the side of the house. Pasha, because of the weight of the pig, wanted to park as close to the house as possible, which entailed leaving the truck with the front end sitting a bit above the rear. They would have to be careful the carcass didn't roll when they opened the back.
Pasha dithered for an uncomfortably long time, while Sherlock agonized over what, if anything, he should say. And then Pasha honked the horn, took a deep breath, and stepped out.
Sherlock got out as well, and so was in a perfect position to see Pasha's face when his daughter—it had to be his daughter—came bustling out of the house, followed by a young, stocky blond man. He was also able to see her face melt into a smile, and to see Pasha…just melt completely.
Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about that; it was both uncomfortable and good. Confusing, certainly.
Natalia started to speak, holding out her arms to her father. Pasha interrupted her, launching into a speech he had clearly been planning for some time. "I know. I know I've been a terrible father. I know I have spent more time away than I should, and I'm sorry for that. But I want—I need to be a part of your life. And I would very much like to be part of your wedding. So Villyam and I" (and here he gestured for Sherlock to help him lift the gate of the truck) "have brought you something for the wedding, in addition to a bride gift." He watched Sherlock haul at the handle of the rear door, which was wedged shut somehow.
"But Papa…," Natalia began, and Pasha cut her off. "No, wait, please. I want you to see. We worked very hard to get this for you, and I want you to see." "But Papa, really…" said Natalia. Sherlock wanted to smack her. He hauled again with Pasha on the gate, much harder this time. It still refused to move. Finally, the young blond man came and stood on the tailgate to help them. When it still refused to move, he jumped up and down, using his body weight to free the stuck latch, and they all hauled again.
All at once, there was an unsettling, shifting sound from within the truck. But Sherlock couldn't worry about it, since the door also abruptly started to lift. The young man hopped quickly down to stand back by Natalia, and Sherlock and Pasha stepped to the side slightly to give Natalia a clear view of the magnificent gift they had brought.
And then the door slid up all the way, and Sherlock caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw the hugely swollen body of the pig roll, in slow motion, over the tail gate and drop heavily to their feet, where it promptly exploded, spraying them with foul-smelling matter from head to toe. If Sherlock hadn't seen it himself, he wouldn't have believed it. As it was, he was aware of various anatomical remnants dripping off his hair and shoulders and plopping greasily to the ground. Pasha, in no better shape, looked at him blankly and then spoke. "I think the refrigeration unit failed." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Never would have guessed," he gritted out.
It was at just that point that the young blond man pulled out a mobile phone and took their picture, while Sherlock glared death from his eyes. And then Natalia, released from her momentary shock, opened her mouth and said what she tried to say all along.
"Papa? The wedding is next month."
John and Mary howled till their sides hurt. Sherlock beamed blearily from the sofa, pleased at his efforts. Suddenly, though, he lurched up from the couch and turned to John. His face was crumpled and his eyes were large and tragic. "I don't feel well," he moaned. John quickly shot out of his chair and hustled Sherlock down the hall to the loo, while Mary continued to giggle weakly on the couch.
Much later, after Sherlock was cleaned up and tucked in his bed in the spare room with a bin and a glass of water, John wandered back into the lounge to clean up the leftover glasses. He noticed Sherlock's photo still resting on the coffee table and picked it up, chuckling again at the ridiculous story. He started to put the snapshot back in Sherlock's wallet when he noticed it was thicker than it should be. He picked at the edge a bit, and realized there was a second photo, lightly adhered to the first one at the corners.
It was just Sherlock in this one, but it was very different from the first. In this picture Sherlock was alone, and apparently tipsy. It looked like it had been taken at some party or other—perhaps the actual wedding, then. Sherlock's curls were dark red and sweaty, and he had a sprinkling of auburn stubble. But most arresting of all was the look on his face. In this picture, taken in what had largely been very difficult times, Sherlock's eyes were turquoise and beaming, and he was happy.
And John found himself saying a prayer to whatever deity was out there, thanking Him/Her/It for Pasha, and praying that wherever he was, he was at peace. If only for bringing that look to Sherlock's face, he had earned it.