A/n: A quintuple-length 221. Oh my.

After several blandly polite phrases to the station master, Holmes took my arm and led the way across the tracks, past the station and down a path that plunged into the shady woods. We had to walk a fair ways before reaching the town of Redburne, but our journey was by no means solitary; the path we tread was crowded with silky-petaled wildflowers on either side, and black squirrels peeped down at us, flicking their dark wiry tails.

"Why d'you suppose that man was so angry at us?" I asked at length, reaching out my hand to catch a seed pod as it spun down.

"Oh, I imagine he's having a bad day. Perhaps his toast was charred by a surly cook."

"Surely it's more than that?"

"You're reading too much into things, Watson, give your mind a rest." He gave a condescending smile. "Anyhow, that shack holds no possibility of brain-work for me, so I do hope we'll find something more fitting to occupy our minds in town. I wonder if they have a bookstore? It's always interesting to see what lies in those intellectual shops." Holmes paused, glanced casually behind him, listened intently and turned to me with a warm smile. "We're no longer being followed, so we can speak as we like."

"We—we were being followed?"

"Of course, by that unflatteringly suspicious fellow; he wanted to be sure we wouldn't double back. Now, Watson, you are free the rest of the day?"

"Yes, but I must return to London by the morrow, I have a busy—"

"Very good, by the morrow we'll be back," Holmes said briskly, studying his watch without checking his rapid stride.

"Do you really mean to visit the bookstore?" I asked after a brief silence, remembering various titles I'd been wanting to peruse. And, of course, it never hurt for a writer to see what was selling these days…

"Absolutely not, unless the scent runs straight through the door and round the stacks of mouldering--Ah! and here, at last, the foliage parts like a proverbial Red Sea before us, and we get our first look at the town. Come along, Watson!" His long, nervous fingers twitched at my sleeve, and we walked into the sun, along a sudden cobblestone street.

The buildings on either side were spread and quiet, keeping to themselves, with generous yards warmed by the sun. There were very few people in sight, which was not surprising, I reflected, tugging miserably at my sweat-plastered collar. We had just turned at a crossroads and were entering a district with a few small stores when Holmes paused, sniffing. "D'you smell anything, Watson?"

"Some type of liquor?"

"Yes; I fancy there's several varieties of scotch, sherry and ale on the breeze. Either a pub is in the vicinity or someone is hosting a tasting party in their yard. I suspect the former, and venture to suggest we turn on this road, for it is from that direction the scent comes strongest."

Holmes led the way through the hot and empty streets, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction as we stopped outside our destination: a small pub sitting between a sweet shop and a milliner's.

"Watson, I find my throat rather dry. Shall we go in for a drink?"

"Sounds perfect to me."

The pub had a friendly, cheerful atmosphere inside, and was quite clean and welcoming.

We each ordered a whisky and soda, and it was a relief just to cup the iced mug in our hands and feel the chill spread through our bodies, for the day was growing ever warmer. Holmes scanned the room; there were few people occupying it at the moment. He fixed his eyes on a young man, wearing working clothes, and lapping eagerly at his drink. Sweat soaked his shirt and hair, and he was daubed all over with white paint.

Holmes bade me stay, then took his drink and wandered slowly to the stranger's table. "Nothing like a bit of rest after a hard stretch of painting, eh?" He asked sympathetically.

The man raised his eyes. "Ain't it the truth? But I don't recall your face, mate."

"And I don't recall yours; I'm just passing through this town, my friend and I have a holiday, but soon enough I'll be back at the work, and blow me if I don't get worked like a bloody dog! If sweat drops were money, I'd be richer than the Queen herself!"

"Ain't it the bloody truth!" The man let a fist fall heavily on the table before taking another gulp of ale. "I work my brush to the handle, and near die from the fatigue—who knows but I may find some other line of work."

"Now, then, we can't give up—we got to suffer noble-like," Holmes said passionately.

"But what's the use, I ask you? Slappin' paint on walls and doors, over and over—it's so degrading, mate, and so tiring. Round and round, always the same. Drives me bloody mad!"

"Now, wait a bit, everything's got to have a purpose, don't it? Don't get so down on yourself. After all, wivvout paint, well what sort of towns would there be? A lick of paint here and there, and things look all bright and spirited, eh? Painters—we're the ones who bring buildings to life, give people spring in their step—why, you might even say—we change the world!"

The painter blinked round eyes. "You really think so?"

"No doubt at all. Why, a shabby building takes down any town's moral a peg or two at least. I thought of that at once as I got off the train, just yonder at the station. I thought to myself, gaw, lookit that shack in the brush—ain't been painted for nigh on months, what a blemish! I'm surprised a chap like yourself ain't got commissioned to do that job yet, eh?" Holmes nodded firmly and tossed back his drink with convincing carelessness.

The painter's eyes grew rounder. "Lord, you've got a nerve to mention that place," he said, his hand shaking as he brought the mug to his lips. "Not for a hundred bricks o' gold would I lay paint on that shack, no sir."

Holmes shrank down, opening his eyes wide. "Can you really mean that?"

"I certainly can, by George," he said softly, his voice sinking so low I couldn't hear it any longer. Holmes held a hushed conversation with him for a few minutes more before clinking mugs and returning to our table, where we finished drinking in silence, paid and left the bar.