A/n: Now that I have a good chunk of the plot settled in my mind, the updates should come faster. (key word, SHOULD. XD) Hope you're enjoying, reviews always welcome.

We took a bench some distance from the pub, and I settled gratefully beneath the shade of a dogwood tree; I felt as if my shirt had been ironed on me.

"It's the hottest part of the day, Watson; from now on it only gets cooler. Now, I shall bring you up-to-date. According to the painter, several years ago two boys in this town—brothers, their surname 'Brown'--were found dead near the shack, their limbs removed and—"

"Ugh! Holmes!"

"Well, if we peel back the layers of fantasy which rumor inevitably adds, I believe the boys were simply stabbed."

"Perhaps it really was as grotesque as he says; how can we know?"

"Think of it this way: if something so gruesome really did happen, and even a common painter knows of it, shouldn't it have worked its way into the papers long ago? Do you recall reading any such thing in the papers, in the last four years?"

"No, and I should certainly remember if I had."

"Precisely. That is one reason I'm certain their deaths have become legend-spun. In fact, I believe a visit to the local graveyard is in order; our painter was good enough to remember the boys' surname, and before we proceed further in the investigation we really must be certain we're not chasing myths."

"But Holmes, oughtn't we try to get a look at the contents of those boxes now, before the station master moves them?"

"No, Watson, that won't do, for that is what he expects. If he moves the boxes—which he certainly will—we won't hold it against him. On the contrary, he's adding a dash of spice to an already tantalizing case."

"Just hope it's a spice you like. Now then, Holmes, how are we to find the graveyard?"

"There was a town map pinned on the pub wall. Did you not see it? Dear me, Watson, we must work on your skills! It was on the wall to the right of the door. I took a glance at it as we left, and noted that the graveyard is near the western side of town, perhaps a ten minute walk. Are you fit enough? Let us be off, then."

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We lowered our voices once we entered the graveyard, and I noticed Holmes took care not the crush the flowers laid here and there. We worked in separate parts of the yard, so as to be more efficient.

"Here is a 'Brown,' Watson; the date is far too early, though. Possibly a relative."

"Speaking of relatives, I've just found a Watson."

"And this chap's middle name is Holmes, so it all works out. I always thought it fitting that we be buried in the same graveyard."

I looked up sharply, but his face was hidden behind a gravestone. I continued my search, and at the end of the row I called him over.

We stood before the two graves. "The names are right, and the death dates are identical---four years ago today."

Someone cleared their throat behind us, and we turned round.

A young man stood on the other side of the graveyard fence, wearing a formal suit that made his pale face and childish freckles appear sad, and somehow forlorn. He held a bunch of wildflowers in his hand. They had been picked clumsily, but he held them with great care and attention. "You knew them?" He said softly, looking to the graves.

"No, we did not," Holmes replied, "but it seems you did."

He nodded, looking down and setting his jaw for a moment as he opened the gate. "Yes—yes, we were good friends. May I ask…?"

"We are investigating the cause of their deaths."

His eyes dimmed as he gently latched the gate.

"Do you know anything, or recall anything, that might help?"

"Might help what?" His gaze was fixed on the epitaphs; he blinked suddenly and turned to us, though his eyes were not quite focused. "Oh…the investigation, yes. I'm in quite a fog to-day, I really can't…"

"Our presence here was most unexpected, I'm sure," I put in.

"Yes; I'm the only one who comes on the anniversary nowadays," he said at length, shifting the flowers to his other hand.

"And do you recall—"

I pulled my friend aside. "We're upsetting him, Holmes, you must leave him be. He came here to grieve, and he still needs to. Offer to meet him for dinner, why don't we, and discuss it then?"

Holmes was obviously displeased, but with a final glower at me he turned round and asked politely, "Would you care to dine together later today? If you were willing, you might be able to aid in the investigation."

He nodded slowly. "All right…yes, I think so. Is half past six agreeable?"

The rest of the afternoon found Holmes and I beside a brook that bordered the town. He began unlacing his shoes, and it seemed so sensible to me that I followed suit. We lay our shoes and stockings in a neat pile by a prodigious elm, and sat on the grassy bank. As we cooled our bare feet in the water, we discussed the construction of family trees, among other necropolis-inspired topics. At last we fell silent and listened to the afternoon breeze.